Six Feet Under
by Battleship Toothbrush
Summary: With de la Serre six feet under, there is no hope for the Order to ever make peace with the Brotherhood. The stakes for betrayal are higher than ever, but after discovering the true nature of their intentions, you are determined to rescue France from its looming demise - with the help of a familiar yet mysterious assassin who turns your world upside-down. (First Fic/Reader Insert)
1. Reinvented Prologue

_A/N: Well, as promised, here is the reinvented prologue of Six Feet Under! I found it a little too tedious to match Lafayatte up with the Unity AND Scarlet Pimpernel timeline and decided that I'd rather the character be a lot less, well, perfect. Besides, as a middle-class lady, it will be a lot easier to move around, anyway! That's really the only major edit. That and the character themself; while you're still no closer to Arno than you were in the original version, you at least have an introduction to him (and Elise) in the beginning. Basically, you're aware that he exists, but the two of you don't grow up together. I thought this development would make the story a little more personable since you're not just chasing a specter like you originally were. This time, the stakes are closer to home - and so is Arno. (Still sunny with a chance of smut later, wink wink.) _

_Sorry about the delay on this. I'm a year closer to a degree in Anthropology (and the crowd goes wild!) and the full-time schedule can be a little overwhelming. But I'm free for the summer, so it's time to get back to work! Thanks for your patience (and if you weren't patient, you suck, but I still love you for sticking around) and let's get this show on the road!_

_-Toothbrush_

_PS: I'm going to leave the original chapters posted. I'm thinking that I might find a way to weave them back in - with some adjustments, of course, but nothing too drastic besides the names. I'll fill in the space between them and this prologue as I go. (And I also had Queen Latifah in mind when writing for Clarisse's character. Just a behind-the-scenes confession. C: )_

* * *

_1776_

The crisp morning air brushed back the tendrils from my eyes as I stared out into the crowded bazaar undulating below the sill of my window. My first memories were of happiness and a love that traversed freely between my parents and I. I had no knowledge of the suffering I lived amidst, of the disease and death that lingered beyond the townhouse door. I was oblivious to everything my parents hid from me. They loved me with the force of a thousand suns and, through no fault of their own, veiled the malicious squalor of Paris from my eyes. They simply loved me too much to shatter my purity; they only wanted me to keep my innocence and remain happy for the rest of my life.

But they could not protect me from the brewing trouble that would soon come to plague all I'd ever known and loved in this world.

I saw my father merge into the mass outside, prepared for the journey to the palace. He was a noble and gallant man, king-worthy with a heart too pure and a soul that repelled any pestilence that sought us out. He was the sort of man princesses would swoon over—and they would have had he been born of higher class. But class didn't matter to me. All that mattered was that my father was the most handsome man to ever grace the Earth and that I loved him more than I loved my own life because he and my mother were what made it so special.

He paused amidst the crowd and turned, eyes seeking me at my window. He smiled, a smile that could provide Paris enough light to see for centuries, and waved. I excitedly waved back and blew him a farewell kiss. He caught it with one hand and brought it close to his heart. We shared a last secret smile before he disappeared into the crowd.

My father settled for the position of a palace guard rather than a king. In my mind, he was already king, but in reality, he served one. It didn't make much of a difference, though; I was proud of him either way. He was protecting the king—protecting me and my mother—and no occupation could be more generous than that. Mother always worried that he would be hurt one day, but father always reassured her that he would be back before supper, safe and sound. His sincerity had soothed me, too. I never worried for his safety. I believed wholeheartedly in him.

But no one could predict that his time would soon draw to an untimely end.

Later that evening, fierce knocking resounded through our townhouse. Mother rose to open the door and a family friend who worked alongside father, Dante Pierce, rushed inside, flanked by a handful of my father's friends. Each looked as though they had lived through a thousand years of turmoil and they lowered their hats in some sort of commemoration. I think mother had been expecting this unceremonious sort of visit, but was too incredulous to believe the time had come. She and Dante spoke in ever-loudening murmurs until mother burst into hysterics and collapsed to the floor. Syrel and Daniele comforted me as I looked on, shocked and terrified as Dante lifted mother into one of the dining table seats.

_"Who did this?!" _she cried, enraged. "May God strikes their souls to everlasting _Hell_! Oh, _God_, _not my love!"_

"We don't know who the perpetrator was," Dante murmured hoarsely. "They murdered another man, Charles Dorian. But until they are caught, we cannot know what their purpose was. Only assume."

Mother looked grotesquely enraged through her tears. "And what's to be assumed, Dante?" He hesitated. Her eyes zeroed in on Dante's and she yanked him closer by the collar until their noses almost touched. "Tell. Me. _Now_."

He swallowed and his throat bobbed. "We assume it was an act of retaliation. Some hitman was ordered to assassinate Dorian and your husband is believed to have witnessed his murder."

Before my mother could reply, another knock sounded at the door. Syrel glanced up at my mother. They exchanged a look and Syrel turned to open the door.

"Am I allowed inside?" a stern voice asked.

Syrel looked back at mother. She didn't nod or shake her head, just continued to glare aimlessly. Syrel murmured a yes and stepped back. In walked a man I'd never seen before, slightly obscured from my view by the billowing hem of his trench coat. His piercing green eyes instantly sought my mother and his thin lips stretched into a shy smile.

Mother stared at him in disbelief. "Gilbert?" she whispered dubiously.

Gilbert nodded and slowly approached her, looking as though he ached to touch her but feared she might crumble into dust. He looked as though he were seeing again for the first time. "Yes," he managed. "_Yes_, it's me. I heard. The palace, Versailles—I knew it was him, knew you were not far. It lead me—they lead me here—I followed them to you. I had to find you, I haven't stopped _loving_ you since the day you left, _no one_ has—"

"My God, my little brother!" Mother began to sob again, taking me off guard. My mother had a brother? Why had I never known?

I watched in awe as she threw her arms out in open invitation and Gilbert approached her, hoisting her off her seat and squeezing her against his stalwart chest. It was then that I realized how large a man he was in both strength and masculinity, very much like my father, albeit my father was hampered with a heavy French accent. Mother began to plead forgiveness for things I could not fathom. Gilbert maintained a calm composure, but the flush of his nose betrayed his emotional vulnerability to me.

The next few minutes passed so quickly I hardly recall what happened next. I was so emotionally exhausted and disoriented I could barely stand. I do remember that my mother immediately introduced my uncle to me. His eyes glowed with an intense love as he pulled me close alongside my mother. Then I was being whisked out the door as my uncle and mother whispered excitedly beneath the silvery slivers of moonlight that peeked out from between the clotheslines dangling far above our heads. Mother sounded adamant, but uncle continued to insist that he bring us to his home just outside Versailles. Between mourning the sudden loss of my father and squeezing a plush white horse (which I had named FitzGerald, the Horse in Shining Armor) he had brought me the week before, I was hardly in any state to argue my decision. I was frightened of leaving the only home I'd ever known, of what would become of mine and my mother's happiness without my father, of the enormous black stallions that hauled my uncle's carriage. I had never ridden in a carriage before. I had never seen horses before. I had never felt so twisted into knots before. That is, never before in my young life. Had I known what was in store for me later down the road, I would have felt both nauseous and excited.

I hugged Syrel, Daniele and Dante goodbye before my uncle hoisted me gently into the carriage. The seats were nothing compared to the comfort I felt in my father's arms, but I was so exhausted I fell asleep the instant my head hit the nook between the bench and the door.

And then, I was waking up to the morning sunlight streaming through a window. I was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, FitzGerald lying on the pillow beside me. Comforted by his presence, I snuggled deeper into them to avoid the intensity of the sun's brightness.

That was until something rammed itself into my bed.

"Rise an' shine, sweetheart," a low and melodious voice called out. I jumped into arousal and stared at the woman in shock. I didn't know her—I'd never seen her before in my life! She was tall and thick with flawless brown skin and the deepest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Her lips held a dash of mauve, their corners curled in a dazzling smile that mirrored her sparkling eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a loose chignon tied with a satin bow and a few smooth tendrils curled atop her brows. I intuited that she was at least five-and-twenty. She bumped the bedframe again with her large hips and patted my feet. "Come on, get up an' greet the mornin'. You want breakfast, don't you?"

She was authoritative and yet still patient and kind. I knew from the moment I saw her that I'd come to love her. I rolled out of the bed and staggered to my feet. She simply smiled and led me over to a wardrobe towering against the opposite wall. When she opened the doors, an array of color splashed out and I gaped at the kaleidoscope of dresses and petticoats draped over hangers so elegantly the hangers looked as though they'd been born to wear the clothes.

My heart pounded in excitement. Never in my life had I worn anything so expensive looking. I'd seen the clothing girls of higher class sported and even they were second rate to what that wardrobe was flaunting.

"I believe these should fit," the woman said. I beamed up at her, enchanted by her like Cinderella was her fairy godmother. "I brought these up from your auntie Amelie's old trunk. She was about the same size as you."

Aunt Amelie? My mother had a sister, too?

"Can I touch them?" I asked hesitantly.

She smiled and nodded, beckoning me to take my pick. "You can do whatever you like, darlin'. They're _yours_ now."

Mine. They were _mine_. Had I died and gone to heaven?

I tentatively reached out and brushed my fingers down the skirt of a green satin dress. The material felt like butter between my fingers. "They're so pretty. I've never seen dresses this pretty…"

The fairy godmother chuckled. "God, you are _precious_. Call me Clarisse, darlin'. If you ever have any problems, just call out my name and I'll come a-runnin'."

It was awkward not dressing myself, but she insisted on pampering me. I didn't quite agree that helping me dress was pampering, but I'd heard from my storybooks that princesses didn't dress themselves, so I didn't argue. I was too excited.

And then I remembered the night before and my arms fell slack at my sides. My father was gone. No amount of mourning him would bring him back, but I believed with all my heart that he was still with me. I couldn't miss him if he was still with me. But no amount of soothing could ease the pain that had seized my heart and bled from it. What would I do now?

"There," Clarisse hummed in approval, "lookin' like a princess already! We'll get your hair up outta your eyes and join your uncle at breakfast. You'll meet everyone else later this week when they arrive—your uncle just sent out the letters."

I gazed up at her solemnly and hoped she could read my expression. I had suddenly become too exhausted to form words. Her eyes appeared to concave and I knew she felt my sorrow. She heaved a sigh and combed her nails softly through my hair.

"We don't need to get your hair up," she said with a sad smile. "Let's go downstairs an' get you some food, okay?"

I wanted to see my mother so badly, but there was something in Clarisse's expressive eyes that I didn't understand. Did she want to keep us apart?

"What about _maman_?" I asked. "Will she be down there, too?"

Clarisse heaved another sigh and, after a moment, nodded. "Yes, sweetie. She'll be down. Not for a while, though, but she will be. I promise you."

I whispered a goodbye to FitzGerald before Clarisse led me to my uncle's kitchen. As we walked, I studied the décor in curious fascination. The coffee-colored walls were covered with art and artifacts unearthed from places I could not imagine. One portrait that caught my eye depicted a young girl leaning against a garden pillar. My eyes traveled up her chiffon dress billowing out at her ankles, the long sleeves encircling her long arms. When I finally reached her face, I found that it looked strikingly familiar. I couldn't help but imagine she was me.

The dining room was fairly large and cozy, accented with beiges and deep browns like Clarisse's eyes. Parquet panels lined the floor and atop it stood a rectangular table long and wide enough to seat two families of ten. At the end sat my uncle, shrouded in the glistening early morning light pouring through an ovular window. He looked up when we entered and stood to come and meet me.

"Good morning," he murmured gruffly. The dark bags beneath his eyes made mine water wearily. He obviously hadn't slept a wink. "Thank you, Clarisse, for escorting her down here." Then he addressed me: "I assumed you would not have much of an appetite this morning—perhaps not even this week—but Cookie will be available to you any time you wish to eat."

"And what does Cookie think about bein' on-call all hours of the day?" There was humor in Clarisse's voice, but uncle looked mildly perturbed. He scowled and scratched at the back of his neck. "Mmm-hmm, I thought as much."

"Cookie?" I echoed.

Clarisse's throat rumbled with laughter. "Cookie the cook, sweetie. The kitchen's behind the double doors at the other end of the room. Feel free to bother him to your heart's content."

I couldn't tell if she was being facetious or not, so I simply nodded. Uncle was right; I didn't feel hungry. I didn't even feel awake. There was just a throbbing pain in my chest and a crick in my neck from sleeping in some odd position in the carriage. My mind had passed into overdrive, trying to comprehend the last several hours. They'd passed so quickly and I was so young I wasn't sure how to adapt as fast as they moved.

Uncle seemed to notice the dull look in my eyes; he straightened and awkwardly patted me on the head. "Well, well, ah—would it make you feel better to, er, _not_ eat?"

Clarisse began murmuring to him in a language I didn't understand. It wasn't French—I knew a little from my father and could discern several phrases. Uncle understood her language and nodded in fierce agreement.

"Ah—I had planned to spend the day in Versailles. You know, to investigate the crime…ah, the crime, by which I mean, ah…" I saw Clarisse roll her eyes from the corner of my peripherals. "What I mean is—you have yet to meet your cousin, don't you? Lorenzo?" Uncle cleared his throat. "Well, I had planned to take him to a friend of mine's estate outside Versailles while I attend some, er, _adult_ business. Do you feel up to traveling with us?"

I met his gaze and nodded. I didn't want to lie around all day. I wanted to go out and do something distracting. That and I was afraid of seeing mother again. As much as I wanted to, I was afraid she wouldn't want to see me. I don't know why, but I feared she would turn me away.

Uncle smiled and patted my head again, still as awkward as before. "Then prepare to depart within the hour. It's quite the long ride to Versailles. Lorenzo will be down shortly, I believe. The two of you can chat and get to know the other better."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ they'll make _quite_ the pair," Clarisse chuckled. Again, I couldn't tell if she was being facetious.

Ten minutes later, I was waiting in the foyer, admiring the fragile elegance of the spiral columns decorated with ivy and the thousands of flowers that towered beyond my head, blooming in lieu of spring. They crisscrossed up the marble walls and their reflections glistened in the fleur-de-lis imprinted tile. It was quite the contrast to the masculinity of the dining room and everything else from what I'd seen. Had my uncle orchestrated all of this, or was this Clarisse's idea?

"Hey, you!"

I whirled around. There was a boy poised at the top of the grand staircase dressed in a deep maroon waistcoat and slacks that were tucked into his riding boots. His eyes were a piercing green, framed by thick brows and dark chestnut hair that was cut tastefully, barely brushing his ears. He was a smaller doppelganger of my uncle and I knew immediately that he was Lorenzo.

"Yes, you."

He stalked confidently down the stairs, keeping eye contact with me the entire time. "I hear you and I are related," he bellowed as he approached me. Those vibrant eyes studied me, magnifying in ferocity the closer he came. I didn't understand his vehemence, nor did I understand him, so I simply shrugged.

"What, cat got your tongue?" He was a mere foot from me now, still scrutinizing me. Then he frowned. "Are you mute? Clarisse didn't mention that you were mute."

"I'm not mute," I growled, puffing out my chest to look more confident. "I just don't feel like talking."

Lorenzo cocked a brow. "Well, you should, you know. De la Serre's daughter, Elise, might think you're illiterate if you don't talk to her."

I narrowed my eyes. How dare he call me _illiterate_! Whatever that meant. "I am _not_ illiterate! And I _don't_ have to talk to her if I don't want to—there's not a law that says I have to."

I was familiar with laws; my father was a palace guard after all. But Lorenzo didn't look impressed. He leaned close as uncle entered the foyer and whispered, "If you can't talk, then you're illiterate."

"Who says?" I snapped.

"Everybody." He smirked tongue-and-cheek and strolled passed me.

I would have decked him in the back of his enormous head had uncle not suddenly been behind me, urging me out the door and directly onto the streets of Paris. Even in the early morning it was busy, just as the bazaar always was on my old street. The townhouses here were large and their designs varied in color and decoration. Horses with pedigree gaits galloped past, narrowly avoiding the eloquently-dressed passersby who attempted to cross the street without first glancing in both directions. Merchant carts passed; farmers with wagons filled to the brim with an overflow of crops freshly picked from their fields; a postal delivery man atop a horse fishing out letters from his messenger bag and allotting them; police officers strolling with batons across the paved street—it was the portrait of peace in pandemonium, all integral halves of security and business interacting in harmony while still causing enough noise to shatter glass. I was amazed I hadn't tuned in on all the noise earlier.

"Come along," uncle said sternly when I paused to absorbed the scenery. "We've no time to lose. Clarisse is tending to your mother. She told me to tell you not to worry for her. She is perfectly all right and is merely in bed for the purpose of soothing an aching head. You won't worry for her, will you?"

I didn't answer, still too taken with my new surroundings and feeling somewhat rebellious after my argument with Lorenzo. I'd show him that silence and illiteracy weren't the same thing—whatever illiteracy meant.

Uncle sighed. "If you cannot even manage to answer a simple question, others might fear you are illiterate."

I scowled. Not him, too!

I leaped up into the carriage and plopped down beside Lorenzo. He grinned smugly at me before turning to the window. This was going to be a _long_ trip.

x

François de la Serre had to be the wealthiest man on the planet. I knew the moment I glimpsed him out the window. He was dressed as fashionably as a king and held such posture I wondered if his back hurt; he was also the epitome of gentility and kindness, going as far as expressing how proud he was of me for having the strength to continue on without my father not even twenty-four hours after his death. I didn't tell him that it was because I believed my father was a fairy hiding in the veil of hair that brushed my shoulders. De la Serre and my uncle lingered outside discussing crimes while Lorenzo gave me a tour of the land. He'd already directed me toward a fountain where cherubs used the pool as a toilet and a garden that towered off to the side of the manor. De la Serre's estate was elaborate and opulent and I could not stop gaping and turning in circles. There was a mural on the ceiling inside and I wondered with wild stupefaction how it got up there.

"It's only the foyer," Lorenzo muttered.

I ignored him. Foyer or not, I could tell that uncle's friend was definitely a man of priority. I could only imagine what the rest of the estate must have looked like: expensive enough to buy all of France three times over.

I remember the hours passing quickly as we explored. Then Lorenzo began talking about our family and I became more interested in exploring my roots. I learned that Lorenzo's mother was absent in his life. It wasn't until later when I learned that his mother, Meghan du Clare, was a French aristocrat who had left her fiancé, my uncle, after she had committed herself to an even richer man. She returned to Gilbert some months later with an infant son, announcing her intentions of abandoning the child to him to escape a scandal that had already claimed her. She left the child with Gilbert and departed for God knows where, without her husband, too, who had left her once he'd learned of her pregnancy outside of wedlock. Thus Clarisse had been hired as a substitute for the mother he had lost.

Uncle Gilbert was not an aristocrat, I realized then when I was old enough to rake through the finer details of Meghan's story. He had no royal title. His parents had been knighted centuries ago in England, but even that was not enough to craft connections with the higher echelon. The opulence he had was earned from his vocation as a private detective. He solved murder mysteries, cold cases, burglaries—and was always successful. That's how he had found my mother after all these years of searching every niche between Paris and London. I suppose that's why he was not so much the emotional sort of man: his emotions had the proclivity of steeling themselves from vulnerability. But I had witnessed his loving side and loved him for him none-the-less.

Lorenzo also informed me that our Aunt Amelie was a harbinger of fashion. She made trips around Europe and attended all sorts of conventions in search for her next incredible creation. Traveling was the love of her life—until she met a handsome German duke and began to court him. There were rumors of their engagement, but they had yet to be confirmed.

Too, I later learned of Amelie's reasons for maintaining a lavish life of travel: my uncle was not only a detective, but was a respected member of a faction called the Templar Order. I had no idea what it entailed in my young age, only that Lorenzo had divulged its secrecy and made me swear to never speak of it to another soul. He told me he would one day be initiated into the Order and would help his allies create a better world. Other than what he had told me, I knew nothing else about it, but my curiosity was peaked and I wanted with all my being to make the world a better place, too, the same cause my father had devoted his life to. When I asked him if I could someday join, Lorenzo told me he would mention it to my uncle on his own time and again made me swear to keep our conversation a secret even from him. I agreed eagerly.

It wasn't until later, once I had reached that comprehensive age of maturity, that I understood why this family had been shrouded from my knowledge. My parents had meant to tell me eventually, but the time came before they had the chance to explain it to me. My mother had left her home to elope with my father, the love of her life. They were soulmates and she abandoned her life to begin a new one with him. Uncle could never restore her title in the public's eyes, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that my father was the most amazing role model I could have ever dreamed up and he would forever be a part of me.

Everyone always did tell me I was the spitting image of my father.

But returning to my roots also posed a problem for my mother: she was meant to join the Order before she vanished and, as a defector, she was highly criticized by other Templars and was therefore ostracized. As Lorenzo and I explored, my uncle was debating with de la Serre about my mother's fate. De la Serre was more than willing to allow mother to remain with my uncle, but, as a compromise, he deemed her no reentry into the Order.

They also debated my fate as well. For some reason unknown to me, uncle insisted I be restricted from affiliating with the Order. I could hear him muttering my name in a persistent tone when Lorenzo and I passed de la Serre's office. In the end, though, it was decided that I would one day be initiated as a compromise for my mother's crime. This, however, was not decided by just de la Serre and my uncle alone. Little did I know that other factors had come into play to determine my destiny.

"…stand the value of a compromise, but she _cannot_!" I heard uncle exclaim.

"I understand your concern, old friend," de la Serre replied. His voice was low and calm, but there was force to it. "All I'm saying is that the Council will want a word with—"

"To _hell_ with their _word_!"

Lorenzo and I exchanged a glance. We stepped lightly to the door and peeked inside. The office wasn't as large as the other rooms I'd seen thus far, but it was certainly spacious and trimmed with opulence. Against the back wall stood an intricately carved wooden desk and standing around it were de la Serre and my uncle, engaged in a battle of wills.

"You are our Grandmaster, François," my uncle growled. "Your word is _law_!"

De la Serre smiled ruefully. "To those who trust me, yes. But not every man can trust a Grandmaster, no. There have been corruptions in our past that have shaped the vocation forever."

"Then ostracize my sister if you wish! I can take care of her. Just _don't_ allow my niece to get involved!"

"And I will do what I can, old friend, I swear it. I will do whatever is necessary to persuade them. But the amendment was instilled some hundred years ago and is perceived as a tradition by these men—I may not be successful in changing their minds."

Uncle shakily placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward until his nose was just a breath away from de la Serre's. "I trust you more than anyone. I would follow you into hell, François. You know that. But if my niece is taken from me, I don't think I'll even follow you to lunch."

De la Serre, in turn, looked obliquely serious. "I understand, Gilbert. I will do what I can to save her. But know that, if all is ruled in your favor, the Council will most likely send her and her mother away. They might even _execute_ your sister. Is that truly a risk you are willing to take?"

Uncle slowly moved away from de la Serre, brows raised in shock. "_Execute_ my…No, but…"

"You can see why my hands are tied, Gilbert," de la Serre murmured, reaching for an opened bottle of champagne and pouring a glass. "Would you?" He offered the glass.

Uncle snatched it with ashen knuckles and downed the entirety of it whilst de la Serre poured himself another glass.

Why me? Why my mother? Why were they so fixated on us? It suddenly made sense to me why my mother had refused her brother's offer of sanctuary the night previous. She had been trying to protect us from Templar law. Of course, my young seven-year-old mentality could not yet fully comprehend this connection, but it did come to make sense to me later.

"How much time do we have?" Uncle asked in a ragged voice.

"Three days, at best," de la Serre replied quietly. He sipped his champagne and sighed heavily. "Give or take their urgency."

Uncle's fingers curled into fists on the tabletop. "If my sister is in peril of being _executed_, then I believe there is _quite_ a measure of _urgency_."

"Quite right—which is why I estimate three days. It took a week for them to audience with Jameson and another month to reach a congruent verdict. Your sister, however, is more of a risk to them than a petty larcenist. If I had the choice of keeping her return from them, I would, but it would only serve matters worse should they discover she's been kept a secret from their knowledge."

Uncle gulped, palms searching the desk aimlessly until they came to grip the edges. He leaned forward again, appearing to steady himself, and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Yes…a risk…"

De la Serre regarded him with a viciously serious leer. "Don't get any rash ideas, Gilbert. The Council may be forgiving of your sister, but they will _not_ be so forgiving of a _traitor_." He palmed my uncle's shoulder and squeezed. "All will be well, my friend. Trust me. _Please_."

Uncle tentatively met his gaze. "I…I do."

De la Serre smiled and Lorenzo and I shied away from the door, sensing they had come to the close of their conversation and were soon to depart. "Thank you, old friend, for trusting me. I will do what I can to ensure their safety."

"Perhaps it _is_ safer for her to join us," uncle growled in resignation. "And if that is to be, then I demand full custody of her as her mentor."

"And I will champion that. I will not allow her to be taken from you, Gilbert. It is your right as an elite and as her uncle and they will _not_ take that right from you."

"Thank you…"

Their words rang in my ears as Lorenzo and I slipped outside through one of the nearby doors. I had yet to explore this courtyard, but found that I lacked the drive to. I no longer wished to explore nooks and crannies. I wished to join their Order as quickly as possible. I didn't want my mother robbed of her family, nor did I want to be separated from them. I felt as though the sooner I joined, the sooner my mother would be safe. She wouldn't die while I was still kicking—I couldn't fail my father. If he could no longer protect her, then I would.

All I knew was that my mother was in trouble. Thus, the ferocious flower of justice in my soul began to bloom. My enemies would not ask for mercy. They would be begging for it.

"Are you all right?"

I looked up at Lorenzo, sheepish now that he'd caught me leaning against the wall of the garden gazebo with glazed eyes. Drool had begun to puddle at the corner of my lips and I hastily wiped it away with the back of my sleeve.

"I'm tired," I said. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the entire truth, either.

But Lorenzo understood. He came to stand abreast me and leaned against my shoulder. "_Monsieur_ de la Serre's estate is enormous, isn't it? You couldn't walk the entire place in a day, I don't think. It's almost sunset, so there's that." He suddenly grinned. "Sunset. Want to watch the sunset?"

I glanced up at the darkening sky. "We can't see it from here."

Lorenzo shook his head. "Not here." He nodded up at the gazebo roof. "Up there."

I pursed my lips curiously. "How do we get up there?"

Quicker than I could have anticipated, Lorenzo shot over to a nearby tree and began climbing. I watched him in awe as he sprung from limb to limb until he'd reached equilibrium with the roof. His head peaked between the feathered leaves with a smile the size of the crescent moon.

"What are you waiting for?" he laughed. "An invitation? Well, you've got one! Now come on!"

I'd never climbed a tree in my life. I thought about telling him that, but then I shrugged. Now was as good a time to learn as ever. Following suit, I clambered onto the first limb, surprised at how exhilarating it felt to backhand society (for I was very certain a princess would never climb a tree). The first few feet were easy, but the higher I climbed, the more afraid I became of my progress. What if a branch broke? What if I slipped? Any minor mistake could send me tumbling to my death. I clung to the trunk for dear life and dug my nails into the bark.

"What are you doing, pisspot?" Lorenzo called. "Are you coming up or not?"

"I—I don't know if I can go any higher," I replied shakily.

Lorenzo must have sensed the fear creeping into my voice, for he was beside me in the next minute, hanging between branches like a spider monkey. "If you aren't going to do it, then climb back down."

"I can't," I mumbled.

Lorenzo heaved a sigh. Then he shrugged. "Well. If you can't go down, then the only way to go is up. You can figure out down later."

The way he spoke! He made it sound so easy risking his neck shattered against the ground. I was almost beside myself in my trepidation, yet I wanted to persevere and be as strong as he was. But still, I was terrified.

"What do I do if can't go up or down?" I wondered quietly.

"Then you're stuck in perpetual purgatory, aren't you?" Lorenzo shrugged again. "Sounds like a personal problem, honestly. If you're afraid of heights, then just don't think about them. Father says all the great minds disregarded what everyone else expected, and then they found something new to expect. Just pretend you're climbing to the sky, or maybe that the ground is covered in King Louis's drawers."

I barked a surprised laugh. "King Louis's drawers?"

"Under clothing, drawers." He shrugged again. "It's all the same, really. Just imagine that you're brave, and then you will be."

I thought about that for a good few moments. Then I decided that he was a genius and I should listen to my elders. Not that he was much older than me, only by four years. So I began climbing again, under Lorenzo's watchful eye, and, before I could decide whether or not Lorenzo was a wretched fiend who had been wrong all along, I'd reached the place he'd previously been waiting. We were now on equal level with the gazebo's paragon roof.

"Made it!" I cheered.

"Finally," Lorenzo mumbled. I started to shoot a glare over my shoulder at him, but I caught the facetious smirk that quirked his lips and relaxed deeper into my triumph.

We carefully maneuvered ourselves onto the rooftop and settled down next to the large stake protruding up from the center. It made for a good back rest and we leaned wearily against it as we watched the sky. The clouds were formed into all shapes and sizes and we spent awhile just pointing out vaguely reminiscent objects. I'd never enjoyed myself more watching the sky. From my old home downtown, I could see nothing but a faint gleam of red and orange. From here, however, I could see everything. The sunset rose upon us like a quilt crafted by the Hesperides themselves.

But Lorenzo and I weren't the only ones eager to enjoy it. As we lay there, footsteps rumbled through the wood beneath us. Someone had entered the gazebo. Lorenzo and I exchanged glances before falling into silence and listening.

"Is there someone up there?" a feminine voice called.

Lorenzo and I rolled over onto the edge of the roof. A young girl dressed in a lace evening gown stood on one of the benches below, gazing inquisitively up at us. A boy sat on her right, also looking quite curious as to who we were. Or maybe how we'd managed to get up onto the rooftop in the first place.

"Lorenzo?" the girl gasped.

"Elise," Lorenzo deadpanned. He cast her a bewitching smile. "Speak not a word, Elise, for a magician never reveals his secrets."

So this was the much-referenced Elise. Well, referenced by Lorenzo, anyway. I immediately took to admiring her fiery red hair and beguiling blue eyes. Envy stirred within me, but I dismissed it almost immediately. I had to prove to her that I wasn't illiterate.

Elise giggled. "I wasn't even about to ask you how you got up there. It would be pointless because you'd never tell me." Her gaze swung to me. "But she might."

Lorenzo scowled. "You speak a word and I'll brand you a traitor for life, ya hear?"

I scoffed. "Can I expect you to pay me for keeping secrets?" Lorenzo scoffed irately and began to climb down the side of the gazebo. It took me a moment to realize that he was leaving me by myself. I was going to have to find a way down without his help! "You traitor!"

"Takes one to know one," he demurred. He landed on the grass with a soft grunt.

I growled low in my throat. "I didn't even have the chance to betray you!"

His viridian eyes sparkled wryly up at me. "Then it's a good thing I evacuated before you could, huh?"

"I still proved I'm not illiterate. I talked to Elise, so there."

Elise swung her head to Lorenzo, looking vaguely angry. "Lorenzo," she growled.

He waved a hand at her in dismissal. I glared down at him, hoping my leer would burn holes through his head. After all we'd been through, he ended up leaving me high and dry.

Elise didn't look very impressed. In fact, she looked hellish with those fiery curls and darkened eyes. "Lorenzo Edward Chandler, you cannot leave her up there! I won't have it!"

"I'll help her," the boy on her right all but whispered. Lorenzo looked smug as he rounded the gazebo and climbed up the stairs to take a seat. "I don't know how to climb, but…"

"You might fall!" Elise proclaimed anxiously. She gripped the hem of her sleeve and growled. "If I wasn't dressed so, I would go up there myself."

Elise could climb? My admiration for her leaped excitedly. If Elise could climb, then by God, so could I. I gingerly crept over the edge of the roof and hooked my foot on one of the pillar rungs protruding out from just below my heel. Elise shouted something in warning, but I could hardly hear her above the rushing in my ears. Pride clashed with fear and I shakily slipped down until I could grasp the pillar between my clammy palms. I clung to it, determined, and began the slow descent down, sliding my hands along the footholds until my toes knocked the balcony railing. I jumped down from the rail and landed haplessly on my feet.

I was met with Elise's glowing eyes as she beamed at me. "You did it! Though I'm not surprised—not when you're related to a monkey."

"What a pity I am," I remarked, throwing a disinterested glance in Lorenzo's direction. He scowled and sank further into the bench cushions.

"I'm Elise," Elise reiterated with a doe-like smile. She swung an arm in presentation of the boy beside her. "And this is Arno. He's staying as a ward here. Be gentle with him - he's had an extraordinarily terrible week!"

Arno was watching me shyly. I offered him a reassuring smile and he returned it hesitantly. "Hello," he murmured.

I wonder what we might have done had we been aware of the consequences of our union early on. It would have prepared us for the torment yet to come. But in retrospect, I'm glad we were made unaware. Had I known, it might have prevented me from taking part in the greatest adventure of my life.

"Elise, Arno," I respired. "I'm (y/n)."


	2. Chapter One: He's a Thief

_A/N: And we're back! Sorry for the wait; Writer's block is a formidable foe. _

_I had originally envisioned this chapter to immediately jump to Elise's ball, but decided that a little bit of exposition for later events was needed first, so we're not quite there yet. But good news: Arno will be returning in the next chapter! _

_Thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoy!_

_-Toothbrush_

* * *

_My Old Friend,_

_It's been some time since we last spoke. Six years today, to be exact! I hope this letter will find you well and forgiving of my recklessness. _

_I will be returning to Paris sooner than expected: my inauguration into the Templar Order has been dated sometime this month and I will remain at my father's estate until there is need of me elsewhere. I do not expect to depart again until late next fall; if I've a moment to spare and my father permits it, I wish to meet as soon as possible. Perhaps both you and Lorenzo could join us for dinner one evening? I know your uncle and my father last parted on more complicated circumstances, but perhaps there is a chance to rekindle their friendship. I've missed you all dearly and hope to reunite soon! _

_If you happen upon Arno, pass on my love to him. _

_Your friend, _

_Elise _

X

I try the doorknocker again. Perhaps he didn't hear me. The streets of downtown Paris are roaring with traffic, even this early in the morning. I step back from the door hesitantly, unsure if I should continue to wait or if I should take the initiative and leave. Uncle didn't specify when exactly these letters should be delivered and was even vaguer about the townhouse's occupant. All I know is his name—no more, not even an occupation. Unless he makes his pay as a male escort as Aunt Amelie divulged. I have half a mind to doubt her promise, but if one knows Amelie, they know that she never lies. Only exaggerates.

I turn to observe the early morning crowd. Men in top hats and canes brusquely storm down the sidewalks. Bejeweled carriages whir past, their jewel-encrusted sills casting vivid auroras upon the cobblestone. The sun is just peeking over the sea of houses further down the road and a cloud of smoke is already clinging to the horizon. It appears the baker is already hard at work. I believe I'll stroll by after I've finished my morning errands.

Speaking of which, is the bloke going to answer his door or not? I've been waiting a fair duration and I've not much time to waste awaiting his reply.

The telltale creak of the door startles me from my reveries of dashing knights come to sweep me off my feet. I whirl around to find a pair of eyes glaring out from the opening. Large bolts obscure my view of his features, but the hood of his dark eyes is enough to unsettle me.

"_Monsieur_ Charles Sivert?" I inquire nervously. I've never had to deliver packages to strangers. Since my initiation in to the Templar Order, my uncle has made it his mission to divert me from field action. As a result, I could undoubtedly never hold my own in a fencing match against a chicken. I can handle a firearm with upmost precision, but because any such weapon could seem offensive, I've been restricted from carrying one with me. Let's just hope this encounter is a docile one and the bloke behind the door doesn't attempt to drag me inside, for I thoroughly doubt anyone here would notice a commoner's disappearance.

He utters a low grunt and narrows his eyes before delving back into the shadows. He's left the door ajar and I can't help but lean closer to try and catch a glimpse of whatever is hiding beyond the bolts.

"I'm here to deliver a package to _Monsieur_ Sivert," I announce a little more confidently.

"Well, ya daft fool?" I hear someone shout inside. "Did ya hear the news? Sivert! Get your arse down here—you've got a package!

If I'm being quite honest, I expected a butler or maid to answer my knock. The townhouse is relatively opulent from the outside and I expected its inhabitants to be, well, prestigious. But perhaps my judgement is premature. After all, first impressions aren't always everything.

Finally, the bolts are ripped from the door, leaving one last chain dangling between the crack as a pudgy man emerges from the shadows. Why is it so dark in there, anyway? It leaves one to unconsciously wonder whether or not they are hiding something. Perhaps he strayed during the night and drew the blinds in hopes of recovering from his hangover. Amelie was very illustrative when recounting Sivert's adventures with the hordes of women he brought into his home. If this is truly him, I can't see why any woman would want to touch him unless it was with the front end of a carriage. He's unkempt and disheveled, eyes drooping and dress shirt stained with God knows what substances. And his stench is unforgiving! When was the last time this man partook in a bath, the Stone Age?

"You called?" His voice is gruff with sleep.

My attempt at a smile nearly falters. "Good morning, _monsieur_! I have your letters here—" I offer them for him to take. "—from my uncle, _Monsieur_ Gilbert Chandler. I apologize if I have disturbed you, I was not sure when would be the correct time to disturb you."

He silently retrieves the letters and withdraws them back behind the door, looking over them conspicuously before refocusing on me. "_Merci_, _mademoiselle_." I nod and turn to leave when he stops me: "Pardon me, _mademoiselle_, but I've a favor to ask of you, if you will permit it. I 'ave a package in desperate need of delivery. It's lying upon my kitchen counter. Shall I retrieve it?"

I shrug nonchalantly. Why not? Perhaps it will prolong my liberation of the mayhem of my Uncle's residence. Do not mistake me; I cherish my family more than I do my own life. But nothing elicits the raging blaze of family love quite like a pack of eccentric and extroverted alphas all battling beneath the same roof for the last scraps of whatever arbitrary nuance they feel is ridiculous enough for debate. "Of course, _monsieur_."

I almost expect him to invite me in, but I'm not disappointed when he disappears back into the shadows. Once again, I find myself with only my thoughts accompanying me. He certainly isn't what one would suspect an escort to be. Perhaps I'm not to his fancy. Not that I would wish to be. The less distraction, the better. I am very much aware of my Uncle's intentions of using these petty errands as a means of distracting me from partaking in anything even remotely dangerous, but I'm still hopelessly preoccupied between assisting Clarisse with household tasks and Lorenzo with his object of affection.

Yes, dear Lorenzo has fallen for a girl—a presumptuous, pretentious aristocrat who can't decipher Shakespeare from Mozart, Antoinette du Clure. Why must he always fall for the insufferable ones? Always the ones that only want for parakeets and more shoes? I wonder if she's ever worried about anything else besides the size of her waist. I doubt anyone's ever _frowned_ at her. If she were anymore uptight, I'd think the collar of her airs was strangling her.

To be blunt, I doubt she has any interest in courting Lorenzo. She's lead him on to believe that she does, but she's much more invested in upholding her status than wasting breath on him. After all, how many thousands of pairs of shoes could a middle-class gentleman provide for her? But the heart wants what it wants and I cannot bring myself to shatter Lorenzo's hopes. He wouldn't listen to me whether I cautioned him or not. I just hope he comes to his senses soon—_before_ Antoinette obliterates his tender heart.

Something ghosts past the corner of my eye. I focus on what little I can see beyond the bolt and chain. A silhouette glides past the back wall, a banner of hair billowing out from behind it before it vanishes beyond my vision. It seems Sivert _had_ strayed during the night and brought a woman back to his home. How I would loathe to be in _her_ shoes.

Sivert appears again, startling me with his abruptness. Good God, he gave me a heart attack. I hadn't even heard him returning! A small package is weighted in his hand as he reaches out to hand it to me.

"Forgive my disappearance," he murmurs as I heft the bundle into my arms. "_Merci, mademoiselle,_ for your services. Ze destination is written on ze parchment—to be delivered to a silversmith on ze other side of town, a man by ze name of Germain." I nod and start back down the townhouse steps. "Give your uncle my regards, _oui_?"

"Of course, _monsieur_," I promise before melting back into the early morning crowd.

x

The sun provides not an ounce of illumination as I stand beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient willow. _Monsieur_ Germain's bungalow towers amidst a grove of compacted oak and dogwood. Shadows dance across the undergrowth and wild daffodils shiver against the crisp breeze. It's comfortable, a rural haven hidden among the silent subterfuge of the Paris outskirts.

Not wanting to keep the recipient waiting, I grasp the silver doorknocker and tap the door twice. A man is quick to answer; not even a minute later he emerges from the clutter of silverworks and greets me with a flabbergasted smile.

"I have a package to deliver to a _Monsieur_ Germain," I readily explain before he attempts to ward me away. After all, his home is quite out of the way for any such stranger to approach.

His eyes fall upon the bundle in my hand and he makes a noise of acknowledgement. "Ah, _merci_, I 'ave been awaiting its arrival! You are a lifesaver, _ma cherie_!"

Oh! So this is Germain. His broad shoulders brush the doorframe and the slab of muscle beneath his dress shirt peeks out from the V of the neckline. His eyes are dark and his mussed bangs brush his thick brows. Overall a charismatic looking gentleman whose quirk of his full lips could easily fell a woman already light on her feet. I begin to wonder if he's also attending to a silhouette and pray he doesn't beckon me inside. I am no wanton—I am a romantic!

In hopes of easing my awkwardness (for God's sake, could he not cover up with a cravat or at least find himself a robe?), I raise the package for him to take. He does so with a brief once-over of the wrinkled parchment and nods complacently. When he refocuses on me, I can't help but believe that I've imagined the ever-subtle gleam of something sinister in his leer. I almost wish I knew of the contents I'd delivered, but reserve my curiosity for later contemplation. I dare not offend him with my bothered imagination.

"Well then, I do believe my work here is done," I announce boisterously, backing away from the bungalow. He flashes me a grateful smile and I return his exuberance with a wave. "Have a good day, _monsieur_! And do enjoy the nice weather!"

He chuckles in what I can only suspect is agreement and shouts, "Ze same to you, _mademoiselle_! _Merci_, again!" before retreating back inside.

I smile despite myself as I depart from the orchard. Upon first impression, I fully expected Germain to be a merciless flirt. But he was quite agreeable and I find that I respect him greatly for withholding any admiration he might have harbored for me. I can't help but believe he did so with reputable intentions in hopes of soothing the pall of my nervousness. After all, I am not a viable contender in the Hall of Beauty. I am pretty, this I know—but what woman isn't? Every walk of life possesses beauty, however few women take the cake and leave you breathless just glancing at them. Women like Antoinette du Clure.

I glance over my shoulder at the retreating bungalow. A restlessness unfurls in the pit of my stomach as an eerie silence looms amidst the grove. Oddly enough, I can't shake the premonition that this will not be the last I'll see of the mysterious silversmith. As my mother would say, only time will tell.

x

It's nearly noon by the time I've arrived at the café. The sun lingers high above my head and the summer heat dries the fresh layer of paint upon the café walls quicker than the painters can apply it. The bazaar outside resounds with a seamless murmur of excitement and the ever entwining sea of consumers parades round the plaza. A juggler has taken to balancing oranges atop his nose whilst dancing on top of the lid of an empty crate, a pool of coins already collecting at its base. A group of children wave streamers through the air, nearly knocking over a florist stacking bouquets atop the counter of his stand.

I breathe in the scent of it all. Yes. _This_ is my city. _This_ is my home.

Before I can duck into the café, a voice hisses my name. I swing around in surprise. No one materializes from the milling crowd to claim me and I conclude that they must not have been calling me. Whether it's common or not, I'm sure someone nearby shares my name. Then my eyes catch the blur of a hand across the porch. A man sits leaning against the railing, his expression hidden by the elongated visor of his hat. The collar of a tailcoat brushes his jawline and obscures any such distinction of his person. I watch him for a moment, brows furrowed in puzzlement. How has he not expired from the heat yet? He gestures to me again, impatiently waving me over. I reluctantly surrender and join him at his small table.

"Blast it, woman!" he growls irately. "Don't just stand around looking like a loon! You'll draw attention to yourself."

A chuckle catches behind my teeth. I roll my eyes, finally catching on. "Then I apologize profusely for my bewilderment," I demure sardonically, "I was not aware that Van Helsing enjoyed breakfast scones and coffee." I nod at the assortment assembled on the tabletop before him. "I mean, really, Lorenzo? What are you doing out here looking like that, hoping to catch Dracula for an early morning tea party?"

Lorenzo's intense emerald eyes glare out from beneath the shadow coasting over his nose. An irritated frown tugs at his lips and I suspect that he was already in a foul mood before he hailed me over. Curious. Lorenzo has always had a short temper, but it takes something more than bushbeating to rile him so.

"It's cautionary," he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. "Were I truly Helsing, I would take a stake to your blathering tongue."

My, isn't he exuberant today? I can practically _feel_ the felicity radiating from him.

I throw my palms up in surrender and cast him a sheepish grin. "All right, Lorenzo. There's no need for animosity. I'm sorry I've offended you." He grunts and is suddenly transfixed with the barely touched scone. His way of accepting a mutual apology. "If you don't mind me asking, what has you so belligerent? Roll out of bed and hit your head again?"

A growl rumbles low in his throat and he throws his head back against his shoulder, peering out across the crowd wistfully. I follow his gaze with subtlety. A chiming giggle reaches my ears and I turn my head in its direction. Flaxen locks coiled and braided embellished with glass birds blind me with their reflective radiance. There's only one woman I know who would permit her tailors to betray her so morbidly. Only one woman villainous enough to blind her prey with _glass birds_ before pulling their lavish heels out from under them.

Antoinette du Clure.

She twirls through the bazaar in a dress draped with silks and laces, the skirt of her nauseating regality billowing up to reveal her newest pair of designer trophies. I almost want to rip the damn things from her feet and poise _them_ atop her golden crown. The trill of her laughter rings in my ears until I fear I might collapse from bleeding eardrums, but with one glance at Lorenzo, I realize that he's already lost to her tone deaf siren call. Her beguiling blue eyes brighten excitedly and I know in that instant that she's spotted the traveling shoe cart—the only reason Antoinette _ever_ comes to the bazaar.

It's then that I notice the bloke accompanying her. Of course, how could you expect one twin to separate from the other? Derek Willis du Clure glides through the mass with a back so straight I fear it might snap from strain. His chin is inclined with conceited contempt as his sapphire leer silently judges all who brush past him. I'm surprised he hasn't brushed off his sleeves yet—oh, spoke too soon. He readjusts his cuffs after he's satisfied with the lack of poverty clinging to the cotton of his waistcoat and raises his head again with a pretentious sneer distorting his chiseled features. I almost wish they'll notice my look of repulsion.

I turn back to Lorenzo, lips tautly confining against a bubbling fit of laughter threatening to escape. "You've been following them _all day_?"

Lorenzo jumps to defend himself: "What? No! I—I only realized they were here some few minutes ago!"

"Oh, of course!" I can no longer hold at bay the laughter that rumbles low in my throat. Blast it, why is it so difficult for me to keep a straight face? "Because you obviously had _no idea_ that the shoe cart would be in town today. And your attire is _definitely_ screaming, _this is not a disguise_!" My gaze seeks the untouched scone. What a revolutionary item; either Lorenzo has suddenly taken a fancy to cranberries or it was ordered for the purpose of enhancing his disguise. "And I suppose you suddenly developed a taste for cranberry scones as well?"

He sputters furiously for a moment before slamming back against the backrest in petulant resignation. My laughter serves to further kindle the blaze of his eyes. He raises an accusing finger at me. "You make a scene and you'll wish you were never born."

That almost sobers me. Almost.

"Noted and ignored." I lean my elbows on the table, regarding him mischievously. "So what have you in mind? Will you corner her against the unforgiving stone of an ally corridor? Or will you toss her over your shoulder and carry her off into the sunset? Do tell—I wager it'll become quite an exciting spectacle!"

Despite not finding Antoinette agreeable in the least, I must still stay vigilant of Lorenzo's agenda. I love him dearly and wish nothing but the best for him—which is why I am, admittedly, considering foiling his next step of action.

Lorenzo rivals my curiosity with a skeptical leer. He's silent for a moment, presumably contemplating his answer, before leaning across the table with his hands clenched beneath his chest. A sobered seriousness rarely witnessed crosses his features and I reciprocate. Lorenzo never seriously divulges into a plan of action unless he's committed himself to it. This is the most committed I've seen him since last year's escapade that involved fireworks and several thousand pounds in medical bills.

"Do you plan to attend Elise's ball tomorrow night?" he inquires.

I blink. Elise de la Serre? She had corresponded to me last week with news of her return to Paris, but I have not yet heard word of any ball in her favor. Can Elise even dance? I remember her stepping on my toes when we tried to learn together, but it's been years since we last met and we have both matured. Elise was always extremely bright; I bet she's picked up a few moves since then.

"I wasn't aware there was one," I answer truthfully. Lorenzo looks shocked and my heart weighs heavily with disappointment. "Was I not invited?"

"We both were," Lorenzo announces. "Amelie will be attending, but father is preoccupied with an investigation and has intentions of keeping me home to assist him."

"But Antoinette will be at the ball, won't she?" I can't withhold the exasperation that wafts from my tone. If I remember correctly, Elise always despised Derek. However, if she's invited Antoinette, then there is no doubt Derek will be sewed to her hip. After all, how can you expect one twin to separate from the other?

I nearly roll my eyes as Lorenzo begins to nod excitedly. "Quite right you are, cousin! I can't say I'm surprised you hadn't heard the news of it—I know father likes to distance you from the elites. I don't even like standing within a mile of them myself. They're sexist, presumptuous bastards who don't give a damn about anything but the number of mistresses they can fit under their sheets."

I choke on a laugh. "You unforgiving brute!"

He winks out beneath his hat. "I try. Now, the plan. It's going to be arduous, but undeniably worth it if it succeeds." Leave it to Lorenzo to plot something intentionally tedious. "You will be traveling with Amelie by carriage. It will depart our residence at five and arrive at de la Serre's estate by six. If father does not have need of me, I will be leaving with you. But should he change his mind, Clarisse will indiscreetly hand you a package. You are to make sure father does not so much as glimpse it and bring it with you to the ball. It contains a magnifying glass, the only one father owns. If anyone questions you, tell them you must have mistaken it for a comb or something to that effect—just don't let them know it was intentional. Use me as a scapegoat if you must; I don't mind trouble, just so long as I have the opportunity to retrieve it. Which I will when I discover that it's gone…missing. When I arrive, I will inform you of what excuse I used and you will stick to that alibi should father ever ask. Can you do that for me?"

I don't even hesitate to answer: "You bet I can."

This sounds too exciting to refuse! I know I should be appalled by my own attraction to mischief, but how could one expect any differently from a victim of her cousin's clever schemes? Growing up with Lorenzo has certainly coveted me to the dark side. Elise is going to get a kick out of this.

The corners of Lorenzo's lips curl upwards into a Cheshire grin. "Perfect. Then once I arrive—"

A loud uproar behind Lorenzo startles us both, transfixing our attention upon the blacksmith's shop. The sea of people dive to the sides to evade the unforgiving soles of Victor Valjean's boots. He stalks forward, a stomp and kick in his infuriated stride as he whirls in every direction, his cheeks rosy and lips twisted into a sneer.

"Whoever he's looking for is going to pay a fortune in medical bills," I chuckle.

"So then what has _him_ so belligerent?" Lorenzo tosses his head back to smirk at me. It appears that he's momentarily forgotten about Antoinette. "_That_ is the question."

I start to reply, but I'm interrupted by the realization that Victor is now lumbering his way over to us. Lorenzo catches my bewilderment and turns to glimpse what ails me. When he sees Victor, he whirls back around and pulls the visor further down over his nose.

"You!" Victor shouts, an edge of ferocity to his tone. I point to myself. "Yes, you! Gilbert's niece!" He's towering over the railing now, at eye level with me. The sweat on his brow rolls tenebrously down his temples. "Arno Dorian, you know him, _oui_?"

My heart flutters excitedly. Arno Dorian? I have not heard that name in ages! After Elise was sent away to boarding school, we fell out of contact and have not met in years. How ironic it is that I should hear of him again only once he's managed to throw himself back into the fray of his antics. I was well aware of his proclivity for running into trouble even while we were still young. Laughter once again bubbles behind my lips as a wave of nostalgia washes over me. It seems some things never change!

But I know Victor and his brother have terrible tempers when especially furious. A few years previous, he and his brother Hugo hired my uncle to investigate the death of their elder sister Francis. They were devastated; Francis was their best friend and business partner and several business connections were severed by her death. When the culprit had been identified and arrested, Gilbert brought him before the brothers. He returned home with a broken nose that night, complements of Hugo, who my Uncle had to reprimand after he struck the perpetrator in the head with an iron rod, nearly killing him on impact. Since Francis' death, the brothers have become distant from society, too cynical of the world to allow it another chance to destroy something they cherish.

Nevertheless, Victor (and no doubt his brother, too) is in a dangerous mood and I would rather not betray Arno to him. Not that I could, as I have no idea where he is or that he was anywhere close by earlier. The thought disappoints me. I would have loved to invite him to breakfast.

Lorenzo and I exchange a glance out of our peripherals. He and I share the same thought: Even if we knew where Arno was, no force in Heaven or on Earth would make us answer Victor's inquiry truthfully.

"_Oui_," I finally answer. "I do know Arno, but I have not had communication with him in some time."

Victor scoffs in disbelief. "I'll believe that when the good Lord comes down from the sky and rains gold on me. 'E just left the shop—you _must_ have seen him!"

Had he really just left? How blind must I be to have completely overlooked him?

But nevermind that now—Victor is obviously out for blood and is not going to leave until I give him something to cling to. Why does he want to know so desperately?

"What's happened?" I inquire dubiously. "What has Arno done?"

"'E stole something from me!" Victor bellows. "If you know where the little fuck is hiding, then tell me now. 'E will _not_ go unpunished!"

I straighten in my seat, expression hardening. How _dare_ he speak so maliciously of my friend? Criminal or not, I can't help but feel rigidly defensive of his character.

"Out for blood, are we?" Lorenzo quips brusquely.

Victor pins him with a lethal glare. "Who the 'ell is this little shit?" he bellows at me.

A small crowd is beginning to accumulate on the patio. Curious customers peer out from the parted shutters of the café. If I can't find a way to assuage Victor, Lorenzo and I might never be permitted to return to this café again.

"Ignore him," I exclaim, hoping to drown out Lorenzo's infuriated sputtering. "He's nobody." Then to be sure his identity remains incognito, "There was nowhere else to sit, so I had to make due sitting beside him—"

"Just tell me where Dorian went and I'll leave you well enough alone, yeah?" Victor seethes. "You're uncle's a detective, ain't he? Then why not make this easier for the both of us and we can all go along on our merry ways?"

"I tell you, I don't know where Arno is," I insist. My hands curl into frustrated fists upon the table and I push to my feet. Perhaps now he will understand how serious I am. "But if you can provide me with his most recent location, I assure you I can track him down."

A pause lingers for only a moment as Victor considers my offer. Even our audience seems to look on with bated breath. Finally, he nods back towards the blacksmith, somewhat more docile now. "'E went out the back towards the _Plaza du Cherie_. A bat out of 'ell, he was. My brother's out there after 'im."

I nod appreciatively. "_Merci_. Now I'll be on my merry way to look for him."

Victor nods and retreats from the railing. The crowd parts at his intrusion. "'Urry up, won't you?" he shouts over his shoulder. "The shop closes at sunset."

I watch him withdraw back inside the blacksmith before releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The usual bustle returns now that the spectacle had ended. I turn to Lorenzo with a sheepish smile. "That's one way to start the day."

He glowers and rises from his seat, animosity still rolling off his shoulders after his distasteful encounter with Victor's rage. Almost as an afterthought, he snatches the scone and tears one edge off with pristine teeth before motioning in the direction of the _Plaza Du Cherie._ "Let's get this the hell over with then."

I pause and study his clothes. "Perhaps we should return home first," I suggest. "You look awfully uncomfortable in that costume. I don't know how you haven't yet expired from the heat."

He brushes past me, chin tilted arrogantly, and saunters down the steps. "I'm just fine. Now let's find that pisspot before he gets himself killed, _oui_?"

I roll my eyes and trail after him. Ah, Lorenzo. Compassionate as ever. Although, in all honesty, I suspect he is as excited to see Arno again as I am. This meeting is long overdue! I wonder why Arno has not initiated any sort of correspondence first. He became rather bitter after Elise left and somewhat more cynical with de la Serre mourning his wife's death, but I hope time has eased their wounds and he will be willing to meet with us. If not…I loathe to think of him turning us away.

Positive thoughts, now. Only positive! What's the use of worrying about it now? First priority is to rescue him from Hugo before he loses his head over a petty watch. But for God's sake, what the hell would he steal a watch for? He still has his father's, hasn't he? I remember him showing it to me once, divulging how special a value it possessed. What need would there be for something less meaningful and sentimental?


	3. Chapter Two: Iron Ladybug

_A/N: Next chapter, finally! So, yes, this updated version follows the story line more closely than the original did, but it's still going to have its own twists and turns independent from the game. I'd like to hear your opinions on which version you prefer, if you have the time! :D _

_I'll try to have a chapter out every week, hopefully two if I'm not already jammed up the ass with preoccupations (cough—DA Inquisition—cough). Nah, but seriously, I'll try to upload at least once a week!_

_I recently discovered _Centerstrain01's_ playthrough of _Unity_ and rediscovered _Uberhaxornova's_ multiplayer gameplay (which I've re-watched religiously for, like, three nights straight) and they've reminded me of what I was aiming for with this story in the first place. It reminded me to NOT conform to the original plot (did somebody say badly written romance fanfiction?) and create something independent of the game and a lot more focused on the forefront of the French Revolution, not a totally lame turkey hunt lurking in the background that completely skirts around the REAL action. It's still gonna be hardcore romance (and a badly written romance fanfiction probs), but it's going to revolve around Robespierre and Olympe du Gauges and the Scarlet Pimpernel and Napoleon and Marie Antoinette and the Assassin/Templar involvement in all the rest of the shit that went down rather than being solely transfixed with de la Serre's revenge and a highly exploited romantic unity. The latter will play important roles in the plot, but they won't be the main focus._

_Anyway, thanks you for listening to me monologue and enjoy!_

_-Toothbrush_

* * *

"_There he is_!"

I whirl in the direction Lorenzo is shouting just in time to see Hugo stumble into the barrel he's been balancing upon. Lorenzo collides cheek-first against the cobblestone and a loud, guttural groan is ripped from his throat when Hugo's boot catches on his jaw. The two of them roll into an assembly of peasants, bowling down barrels of lard in their wake.

I grimace. That's going to leave one _hell_ of a mark. Honestly, not five minutes into our investigation and our merry way has already gone to shit!

"'Ugo—get 'im!"

Great, now Victor's here, too—stuck looking on behind a wagon cart that's lost its horses now that Hugo's scared them off. The market dwellers dive to the sides to evade the bucking horses and soon there's an avalanche of dilapidated counters and stands littering the market floor in lieu of the rampaging stallions and the equally rampaging consumers. Bravo, Lorenzo—you've managed to produce a thousand pounds worth of destruction to public property in a matter of seconds and you didn't even have need of the fireworks this time.

The good news is—I found Arno.

In the instant Hugo bowls over Lorenzo, he loses his footing and collapses to the ground with a roar. A shimmering blur flies out of his grasp and narrowly misses colliding with the baker's wife before sailing straight through the air and into the outstretched hand of Arno Victor Dorian.

I can glimpse his smile from between the undulating crowd and immediately recognize the watch to be his father's. Well, at least his motivation is clear; why else would the blacksmiths have it unless one of them took it from him? Seems like they've some explaining to do. For now, I just have to keep Hugo from picking up another iron rod.

Speaking of Hugo, he's already back on his feet with Lorenzo clinging to his legs. His hat is now lying in the horses' warpath some feet away and one sleeve of his waistcoat has been ripped from the seams, dragging uselessly after him.

"Citizen's arrest!" I hear him screaming over the deafening uproar of the crowd. His lithe body is dragged along as Hugo wades towards Arno, throwing bystanders left and right out of his way. "Are you deaf?! I'm placing you under citizen's arrest!"

"Bugger off!" Hugo snarls before kicking Lorenzo square between the eyes with his heel. Lorenzo releases him with a hiss.

And there goes my hope for a peaceful resolution.

I sprint forward, leaping over the overturned barrels and pressing through the thick horde of onlookers. Lorenzo is slowly struggling to his feet by the time I've reached him.

"I'm going to _kill_ Dorian," he mutters lividly, voice muffled by the hand cradling his nose.

Speaking of killing Dorian, Arno seems to have finally returned to Earth; he raises his head with a triumphant sneer that quickly vanishes into trepidation when he realizes how much closer Hugo is than he was seconds before. For a lumbering brute, he certainly moves like lightning!

"I'll get 'im, Victor!" Hugo bellows, arms outstretched with the intention of cornering Arno against a gardening stand.

Arno laughs breathlessly as his back knocks against the unforgiving slab of wood. "What's that old saying about giving up while you're ahead?"

"_You li'l—!"_

Hugo swipes a hand at Arno's head, but narrowly misses when Arno ducks at the last second. He instead sluices into a lawn decoration capped with a ladybug atop an iron pole, knocking it to the ground in one fell swoop.

I comprehend its significance the same moment Hugo does—it's an iron rod!

Simultaneously, Hugo lunges for the rod and Arno bolts off in the direction of an open townhouse window. At the same moment, Victor has found an alternate route around the abandoned wagon and is sprinting full throttle at Arno.

"Get up, you worthless shits, get up!" Victor wails as he passes us. Lorenzo responds with a hoarse obscenity and I'm helpless to do anything but stare in morbid excitement after him.

Arno catapults over a toppled counter. Hugo swings the pole with the force of a thousand armies and barely manages to catch the heel of Arno's boot with the hooked pinnacle. Despite losing his footing, Arno manages to catch himself before colliding with the ground. He rockets back onto his feet and lunges forward before Victor can crush him beneath his lumbering weight. Hugo rounds the stand and raises the pike to swing again.

"Thickheaded blacksmith like you probably can't even _read_ a watch!" Arno taunts with wicked triumph as Hugo, preoccupied with chasing him, stumbles into a formidable crate of lettuce.

"Come over here and say that!" Victor bellows, approaching quicker than Hugo can rip his pant leg from the unforgiving splinters jutting from the eroded wood.

Arno's eyes widen with comical alarm. "Ah, no."

Finally, Lorenzo has recovered enough to walk a straight line. He clambers over a half-dilapidated stand and I follow him closely as we weave through the plaza, burning with the mutual intention of reprimanding Hugo before he causes more harm than justice. He's going to hit someone other than Arno if he keeps swinging that rod so recklessly!

"Dammit, man!" Lorenzo shouts—we're quickly closing in on Hugo, who has once again deterred Arno from escaping and now has him pinned between a wagon carrying bales of hay and his brother. "Drop the rod before I bludgeon _you_ with it!"

Arno's eyes illuminate with a dawning comprehension. His head swings to Lorenzo and he stares despondently for a moment before shouting with incredulous recognition, "_Lorenzo?!"_

Unfortunately, a second's distraction is all it takes for Hugo and Victor to regain the upper hand. Victor lunges, prepared to tackle Arno to the ground, a Hugo twists his wrists in lieu of another lethal swing. But Lorenzo and I are quicker; to my left, Lorenzo hurtles over a counter and uses the platform as leverage for a higher leap that sends him toppling onto Victor's back. Victor rounds about, limbs flailing uselessly as the two crash into a bale of hay. I've followed suit, ripping the scarf off a woman's head as I pass her by, blood rushing in my ears. I may not know how to hold my own in a fist fight, but I sure as hell can improvise!

With a twist of my wrists, I have Hugo subdued with the scarf wrapped around his eyes. The rush of adrenaline keeps me clutching tightly to his shoulder even as he drops the rod and pulls at the scarf. I don't even have a second to contemplate the consequences of attempting to restrain a very tall and very strong man who could easily break more than my nose with the flex of his pinky. Now that I'm contemplating it, how the _hell_ did I convince myself to restrain a very tall and very strong man who could easily break more than my nose with the flex of his pinky?!

My gaze seeks Arno's without my consciousness realizing it. He's watching me, eyes wide and lips gaping. Whether or not he recognizes me is painted in his expression. I find myself captivated with the glowing depths of his irises if for an eternal stitch in time. I can't say what it is that mesmerizes me, but I am hopelessly ensnared by the matured masculinity that radiates from him. He is truly a sight for sore eyes and, might I say, these last six years have treated him wondrously!

But in the heat of the fray, I don't have long to admire him—Hugo has me by the forearm and is trying rigorously to tear me off his shoulder.

"Go!" I shout. "_Arno, get out of here!"_

Startled back into reality, he eagerly nods and races off. Unfortunately, the marshalcy seems to have caught word of what's erupted here in the square; I can see that the marshal's deputy himself has made an appearance from atop Hugo's back. And, of course, he's here alone. Krem Delacroix defends the public as a one-man army, much to the marshalcy's exasperation. His faux wig is pulled back into a low chignon that brushes the collar of his silver-encrusted tailcoat and his malachite glare scrutinizes the pandemonium with conceited contempt. Oh, how I wonder why he isn't related to Derek Willis du Clure.

He notices Arno about to round a townhouse and intercepts his escape with a shriek of recognition. Well, this situation has obviously occurred a copious number of times before. Arno evades Krem's shrill demand of authority by taking to the rooftops, racing seamlessly up the townhouse wall and reaching the roof in a matter of seconds.

"_You get back 'ere, you twat!"_ Krem screams, voice deafening even from across the plaza.

That's the last thing I hear before the knobby bludgeon of Hugo's elbow crashes into my forehead.

Then I'm lying on the ground amidst a heap of dust and hay with no fathomable clue as to how I got there. The bridge of my nose settled between my brows aches dolefully and a rush of blood drowns any olfaction I possessed prior to this predicament. The shrieking horses sound like banshee wails reverberating through my bones and I dazedly wonder if some otherworldly court has come to claim me and present me to the greater judgement.

Then Lorenzo, blurry as he is, leans into view, hooded leer ferocious as he digs his nails into my shoulder and shakes rigorously. Wasn't he wearing a hat earlier? I'm so dazed I can't seem to recall where it went.

"_Merde!"_ he growls, voice seemingly thousands of miles from me. He grits his teeth and cups my cheek with rarely witnessed tenderness. I believe he's examining my pupils, a trick he learned from his mentor before his initiation into the Order—he always had the proclivity of getting battered beyond recognition when dueling and concussions were common for him. His thumb pries back my eyelid and a relieved sigh rattles in his chest.

"'Ow are 'er eyes?" murmurs a rugged voice I don't recognize.

"Good. Nothing's dilated." Then Lorenzo winces. "Damn, but look at that bruise! He left a mark on you, didn't he? Stupid bastard…"

"What just happened?" I query breathlessly.

He slowly pulls me by the waist until I'm sitting up, an infuriated scowl contorting his expression. "I managed to subdue Victor—temporarily, though, the man is a shitting brute. I meant to chase after him, but then I caught sight of Hugo staggering around with you miraculously still atop his back. And then the bastard brought his arm forward like a piston and bludgeoned you right between the eyes. Next thing I knew, you were unconscious on the ground and both Hugo and Victor were galloping off into the sunset, shitting brutes…"

It's then that the plaza finally materializes back into view. A crowd has accumulated around us, however bereft of any marshalcy. Their concerned murmurs linger on the breeze, some distinguishable: _Perhaps someone should call for a doctor? And they told me to fear _rats_, not _blacksmiths_. Did you see where those fools ran to? Olympe will have quite a fit when she hears of what that sexist zealot has wrought! Not even an apology. Where did that daft fool Delacroix run off to?_ _I'm going to throw this scarf into the hearth when I return home._

Zealots, I agree. They obviously had to have stolen Arno's watch and he had reciprocated by retrieving it. That could be the only explanation as to why Victor, of anyone, would have possession of it. But regardless of who stole what, I am somewhat agitated by the brothers' method of action. Hit me all you like, but do _not_ endanger my family. How can justice be served when you're injuring all the wrong people? Blood is smeared across Lorenzo's upper lip and the bulging bridge is split thanks to Hugo's heel. Though he is otherwise unharmed, I am still aggravated. Had Lorenzo been the one flat as a crepe on the ground, I would be spitting I'd be so furious. But it isn't Lorenzo lying here and I am also otherwise unharmed, so I have no need to pity myself. Arno, however, I _do_ pity.

I glance at Lorenzo; "For how long have I been out?"

"No longer zan a minute, _mademoiselle_."

I turn my head to address the man beside me—well, to address whatever I can actually _see_ of him. Everything from the high arch of his cheekbones and up is veiled by the coasting shadow of his beaked hood and anything else below the bird's nest of his beard is obscured by an elongated tailcoat obviously crafted by skilled hands. A smile of rugged regality climbs up his left cheek as he studies me from beneath the cowl and his arms are hung slack over his thighs. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his breeches are a little frayed around the knees, however his nonchalant disposition immediately puts me at ease.

"I 'appened to be passing by when I was swept into ze current of ze perilous danger zat 'ad erupted 'ere," he explains once recognizing my confusion. His voice is so smooth and melodic I have a hard time not focusing on the way he forms his words. Then he grows more exuberant, throwing out hand gestures as though weaving a dream before his very eyes: "Like an _ange_, you were! Soaring zrough ze sky. Zen you crashed to ze ground like a falling star!"

Can I just confess here and now that I definitely like this man? I can only imagine how ugly and hilarious my flight must have looked to any other onlookers, but his man makes it all sound so graceful. He sounds so exuberant he almost has me convinced that my blunder didn't look nearly as terrible as it probably did!

"No more graceful than a rock with wings, of course," Lorenzo drawls, "but who was watching?"

"Besides an entire crowd?" I point out, quirking a brow. Speaking of the crowd, it's slowly dispersing as we chatter.

A shrewd smile worms its way onto Lorenzo's lips. "Don't worry your pretty little head, cousin. No one laughed…much."

Leave it to Lorenzo to spoil a perfectly good moment. I swat his arm and refocus on the handsome stranger beside me. "_Merci, monsieur_, for at least _trying_ to ease my embarrassment after exhibiting such an uncanny resemblance to a _rock with wings_."

I'm sure I heard Lorenzo snort a laugh, but he's covered it with a cough.

"Your cousin is plainly jealous of your elegance, _mademoiselle_." The stranger whispers. We share a secret smile away from Lorenzo's prying eyes. Then, he extends a hand. "Up, up and away, zen, _mon ange_?"

I pause to marvel at his seamless charm. I've never been called an angel before. Then, guilty with the fear of offending him, I snatch his hand a little too eagerly and allow him to pull me to my feet with one fluid motion. His palm is calloused and his fingers are tapered, but they exuberate a warmth that melts away my uncertainties. Much to my relief, the ache in my skull begins to dull to a hollow pulsing behind my eyes. But I know I'll have a headache later. All of Lorenzo's plans seem to end with headaches.

"Andre du Fleur at your service, _mademoiselle_," he announces theatrically before pressing a kiss to my knuckles. A frothing flush creeps up my neck; I've never been kissed before. Never on the hand much less the lips. I didn't sense any obvious romantic intent in his kiss, but that makes it no less endearing. He raises his head and I catch the vaguest glimpse of warm hazel eyes before they are hooded once more. "Forgive me, _mademoiselle_, for stalling your offices. I am but a blundering fool when in ze presence of such _beauté_."

Offices? I ponder nebulously, barely managing to make sense of the connotation as I have been rendered an enamored mess by the suddenness of his compliment. Offices. He must mean Victor and Hugo.

My heart slams to a halt—Victor and Hugo! Oh, dammit, we've forgotten about Arno!

I toss a frenzied glance in Lorenzo's direction. "What about Arno!"

"Good to see you're returned to the same page," Lorenzo exasperates. He nods off south of the plaza. "I'll wager anything that he's run back to de la Serre for sanctuary, but I wonder what might conspire with Victor, Hugo, and now Krem chasing after him."

"Zen whatever are you standing around '_ere_ for?" Andre raises a fist valiantly towards the sky. "Onward, _mes amis_! In defense of zose wrongly accused!"

"_Oui, oui_!" I exclaim, mimicking his pose. Resisting his enthusiasm is futile. "In defense of those wrongly accused!"

"I'm surrounded by lunatics," Lorenzo mutters, peeking sheepishly at the passersby that casts us a worried glance.

Fortunately for him, the crowd has long since thinned out and those not already preoccupied with their own conflictions have made themselves busy mending stands and clearing the debris. The horses have been wrangled and reunited with their wagon. The farmer in possession of the scattered bales of hay is particularly infuriated; I glimpse him over Andre's shoulder, storming around and muttering curses. I have the sinking premonition that _he_ might beat us with iron rods if we don't leave soon. The last thing we need is for Uncle to catch wind of our recent antics. That would end with far worse things than a headache.

Lorenzo must have also noticed the farmer; his hand snakes out to grasp my wrist and a hurriedly pulls me away from Andre. "Pardon us, Andre, but we must _adieu_ before the marshalcy no longer finds Arno's injustices as expensive as ours."

"_Je te souhaite bonne chance! _(I wish you luck!)_"_ Andre cheers after us. "_Adieu_!"

I glimpse him one final time over my shoulder. It's only after he's melted out of sight that I realize that I never returned the favor of telling him my name.

X

"—galloping up ze side of buildings is testament enough to 'is appalling lack of respect for ze law!"

"Are you forgettin' about 'ow 'e stole my watch, you one-man failure?"

"You _dare_ mock ze incarnation of auzority, you zickheaded, dung smelling _connard_ (bastard)?"

The small crowd of those offended has congregated around outside de la Serre's estate, effectively drowning out his inquiries with their vehement arguing. De la Serre is visible over Krem's shorter stature and he looks noticeably exasperated and much wearier than last I'd seen of him. Still, his back is straighter than a plank. Olivier, his scheming butler, appears collected as ever and knowingly smug. I can only guess that he is expectantly awaiting de la Serre's order to exile Arno from his estate forever. Those two have never gotten along.

Fortunately, Lorenzo and I might be able to change Arno's fate.

"De la Serre!" I shout, quickly approaching the congregation with Lorenzo close by my side.

De la Serre raises his head. His eyes widen with a dawning recognition, the same that had overcome Arno that transformed his expression. His shock makes him look nearly twenty years younger. He incredulously calls our names as he moves between Victor and Krem, who are oblivious to his existence, to meet us. Before I can speak another word, he reaches out and pulls Lorenzo and me into a brief embrace.

"What on earth are you doing here?" he queries dubiously as he pulls away. His scrutiny devours us and he is obviously flabbergasted at how different we look juxtaposed to six years ago. "Are you well? How have you been?" He frowns. "What on _earth_ are those bruises? Lorenzo, is that your _sleeve_ dangling at your side?"

Lorenzo and I exchange a sheepish glance.

"Just a repercussion of fighting crime on the streets of Paris," Lorenzo replies gallantly. His quick charm noticeably settles de la Serre's concern, though he is initially reluctant to turn his gaze from our disfigurements. Lorenzo's eyes darken mischievously; "I'm sure you could guess why."

A scoff of disdain is something I would never expect from de la Serre, much less the catty roll of his eyes. "Oh, I can certainly guess what—or _who_—has ailed you."

He turns back to the obscenities growing ever-louder behind us. Victor has assumed his full height and wielding it as a weapon of intimidation. Unfortunately for him, Krem Delacroix—no matter how insufferable and uptight he is—is known as a one-man enforcer for a reason. Had I never witnessed such a brawl between Krem and a rowdy citizen, I would have easily placed every possession I had on the civilian's victory. However, despite being short and lanky in stature, Krem is swifter than a coursing river and can easily out-maneuver even the most calibrated pistol. He's something like a hare the way he jumps around and skillfully disarms his offenders with a simple duck and elbow to the stomach. I've seen it many a time working with him alongside my uncle.

"Don't you insult my _mére_ (mother), you pansy-eating, turnip head!" Krem scathes.

I feel everyone in the general vicinity cringe. There's another reason why Krem is always alone—his communication skills, namely his comebacks, are painfully awkward.

"'Hose poor idea was it to make you deputy?" Victor snaps contemptuously. "Obviously someone who wanted you gone for as long as possible! I'll bet the marshal was 'opin' you'd already be plantin' daisies by now."

"Jealous of my success, are we?" Krem spits back.

Victor shakes his head. "Oh, please," he growls caustically. "All I'm jealous of is 'ow proud your mummy must'a been o' herself the fourth time she dropped you on your 'ead."

Krem stomps his foot. "You_—you've gone too far zis time, you camel-mannered, tunic-wearing, molly-coddle!_ _A month in ze bastille will shut you up_!"

"_Gentlemen_!" De la Serre's abrupt outrage startles everyone, eliciting whiplash from every party involved as they whirl to face him. Calming himself with a deep breath, de la Serre steps forward and curtly addresses Krem: "Citizen Delacroix, I ask you to please escort these men back to their shop."

I hum a sigh of relief. Arno's innocence has been prioritized and I am immensely complacent knowing that I had a hand in this outcome. It gives me comfort to know that I've protected him from what could have ultimately been a devastating loss. Had de la Serre exiled him from the estate, Arno would undoubtedly fall into some manic depression, just as he did after Elise was sent off to school and de la Serre distanced himself after the death of his late wife. Arno has no family left other than the one that adopted him.

"Wha—that's it?" Victor exclaims in bewilderment, fists clenching and unclenching. "What about your ward, huh? Are you forge'in' why we're—" he gestures between him and his brother—"'ere? 'E _robbed_ me! If anyone should be escorted away, it should be '_im_—"

"Rubbish!" I burst, no longer bothering to withhold my crusading assertion of justice. He has provoked this out from me and now it's too late to drag my seeping fury back in. "That watch was his father's, I saw it myself! What reason would he have to _rob_ it from you unless _you_ took it from him first?"

Victor points an accusing finger at Lorenzo. "An' wha' about 'im, eh? I asked you to 'elp me catch a thief—wha's all this invitin' your sidekick to help you do the exact opposite? 'Ugo still 'as a burn on his face!"

Hugo shuffles despondently and rubs at the marks the scarf left on the bridge of his nose and over his eyelids. A staggering guilt coils within me, but I push it to the back of my mind, determined to remain focused on my priorities as a training officer of law under my uncle's careful study. In this moment, asserting justice is my top priority, but I know that I'll need to apologize to Hugo later. He's a gentle soul who is more sensitive than most would credit him for. His outburst after Francis' death was testament enough to that.

But while I am disappointed with Hugo's method of action—he was going to impale Arno with a _gardening decoration_, tell me that's not something to be upset about—Victor is my primary suspect.

"Well what did you expect us to do?" I exclaim. "Throw rose petals and celebrate? You were going to skewer Arno with an iron rod!"

De la Serre all but gapes at the startling information and even Krem and Olivier look unsettled, but Victor leaps to defend his brother.

"It was a _gardening tool_!" he cries. "A bloody _ladybug_ _decoration_!"

"It was pointy and it was sharp! It was punishment enough for the man who murdered Francis, but not for a petty crime _you_ evoked!"

Victor stomps forward, shoulder slamming into de la Serre's when he passes him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lorenzo's hand dart for the sheathe of his blade, prepared for whatever comes next. Krem follows after Victor with an apprehensive stride and his hand brushes the hilt of his rapier. The atmosphere itself is so thick it could be split with a spoon and my shoulders tense tautly as he comes to stop just inches from my face. His jaw pulses and he raises a sausage of a finger as though about to chastise me.

"Don't you drag my sister into this," he hisses dangerously, hot breath fanning my lashes. His expression contorts into one of barely withheld malice and I know that any further begetting could produce a higher medical bill than all of Lorenzo's schemes combined.

"I apologize for doing so," I murmur wholeheartedly, "but surely you must see how absurd this all is. What happened at the plaza escalated a little too far and a little too violently and I understand that that can be expected under especially intense circumstances. However, it was still an arbitrary crime that set this all into motion and no amount of convincing can persuade me to believe that cornering Arno with brute force and a sharp rod were necessary in his capture."

"You're talkin' like 'e's innocent," Victor snarls.

"And he is," Lorenzo interrupts, moving to stand between the two of us. He nods at de la Serre. "The only crime Arno has committed is a troubling lack of fashion sense. The watch he has allegedly stolen from these men is, in fact, his own father's watch. How else would they have come into possession of his most protected heirloom if they did not swipe it from him first?"

"Know your facts before you toss 'em!" Victor snaps. "'E lost it to me in a game of Pharaoh last night. It was fair game! 'E lost, so 'e stooped to thievin' to get it back! Fair game!"

"'E did,' Hugo murmurs bashfully.

A pall of silence follows suit as everyone absorbs this confession. So then…Arno really had stolen the watch back from the brothers. I feel terribly misguided and disgustingly mortified; I've just made a fool of myself in front of everyone. I didn't even inquire after Victor's innocence; my conclusion was nothing more than a product of assumption and therefore I have disgraced myself as the most pompous detective of all who ever lived! Now I really _must_ apologize to the brothers, but I cannot muster the voice to do so. Instead, I allow my shoulders to slump in resignation and I lower my gaze to the unforgiving cobblestone.

"Then why didn't you tell us that before?" Lorenzo chides, his hand slowly falling from his sword.

Victor throws his arms up in exasperation. "Christ! I told you 'e robbed it from me, di'n't I? Wha' _else_ do you think I meant by it?"

De la Serre releases a sharp breath. "Citizen Delacroix, please," he implores, "escort the brothers back to their shop. I will compensate for their loss."

Unfortunately, Victor doesn't look satisfied, rather more agitated than anything. "We don't want your bloody money! We want your ward brough' to justice!"

"And he will be," de la Serre declares brusquely. "_I_ will find a suitable punishment for him."

"Perhaps the marshalcy could put him to better use, sir," Olivier suggests, feigning nonchalance. But I hear the malice seeping from his undertones. He wants Arno so far from the estate that not even a map will guide him back.

"That will be all, Olivier," de la Serre snaps, surprising us all with his sudden outburst. Reluctantly, Olivier nods and storms back into the manor. Once out of sight, de la Serre returns his attention to Krem with an unwavering leer. "There is no need to deploy the marshal now, is there, Citizen Delacroix?"

Krem scowls. De la Serre's elite disposition grants his requests propriety, even when it is in favor of a—dare I say—_criminal_. "Keep 'im off ze roofs and we will 'ave no problems. _But_, if I catch 'im in ze act again, I will not 'esitate to arrest 'im."

"If he does so again, then I will entrust his transgressions to you," de la Serre agrees somewhat impatiently. "Until then, he will remain under my watchful care."

"I'll 'old you to it." Krem casts him a sharp nod before gesturing to a fuming Victor and docile Hugo. "Any furzer resentment will result in taxes too expensive for ze likes of you to pay. You are to be silent and remain so until you 'ave returned to your shop. Now, follow me or I will personally escort you to ze bastille."

"'E'll pay for this," Victor grumbles as he follows Krem back to the plaza. Hugo barely glances at us as he passes.

"_Je suis désolé_ (I'm sorry)," I call after them. Either they didn't hear me or they chose to ignore me. Either way, I still feel responsible for their consequences.

"Well," de la Serre sighs. "That boy is going to bury his own grave if he doesn't stop these ridiculous antics now."

"From what I've seen," says Lorenzo with a wry smile, "I think he already has."

"Yes, well…" Another sigh. De la Serre turns to us with a gratefulness expressive in his gleaming eyes. "Thank you, both of you, for defending Arno, guilty or not. Six long years and your friendship is as evident as ever. I think he'd convinced himself to believe that neither of you cared for him."

"He couldn't be farther from the truth," I respire.

There had been purpose six years ago to our falling out. Though, in retrospect, it was certainly some form of adolescent theatrics. Elise had been visiting home for the summer and Lorenzo and I had been invited to see her before her departure the following week. We had talked for hours in the parlor, but Arno had been quiet. We tried coercing him to play a game of cards with us, but when he joined us at the table, he remained monotonous. Later in the evening, Lorenzo pulled me aside. He expressed that he believed he knew why Arno was as despondent as he was: we had been invited to see Elise. Not him.

Then Uncle and de la Serre had been arguing something fierce during one of our visits. Their voices echoed through the halls for several minutes. Lorenzo, Elise, Arno and I had congregated at the opposite end of the corridor from de la Serre's office, listening intently. I caught my name and my mother's several times—and then Uncle stormed out of the office and whisked Lorenzo and I away from the estate. We hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye.

Six years later and I still don't know why it all transpired. I believe it had to have something to do with my initiation into the Order—it happened a few short weeks later, while I was still very young, and I hadn't been given permission to return to the de la Serre estate since then. I wonder if Arno ever believed that Lorenzo and I preferred Elise's company to his. We never meant for our visits to seem that way, but after six long years of questioning, I wouldn't be surprised if he still does.

"Can we see him now?" I inquire after de la Serre.

He looks troubled. "I cannot acquit him of his crime. I fear that your appearances might defeat the purpose of punishment."

Despite the firm slash of his lips, I sense that he wishes it were not so. He cares deeply for Arno, perceives him as his own son. But I understand his intentions. Arno has committed a crime and several more; that much was clear from encountering both Krem and Olivier. If Olivier was so eager to pawn Arno off to the marshalcy, then his consequences have obviously been laxed.

"I fear I must keep him home from Elise's initiation, as well," de la Serre continues ruefully. He draws a long sigh and glances up at the library windows. "I don't know what to do with that boy. Prostitution, drunk brawling, direct disrespect of authority, and now thieving."

"All at once?" Lorenzo quips. Both de la Serre and I glance pointedly at him. "Well, not _obviously_. I was joking. I just—oh, nevermind."

"Lorenzo said we received an invitation for the gala," I announced, refocusing on de la Serre. If Lorenzo and I are not given permission to see Arno _now_, perhaps we can manipulate the situation so that we might sneak in and see him later. Perhaps even bring him to the gala with us.

De la Serre nods eagerly. "_Oui_, of course! I had hoped to coerce Gilbert to join you, so I sent the letters myself."

The confession lingers dismally. De la Serre misses Uncle dearly, it's apparent even despite his modest front. A newfound hope reignites within me. Perhaps this ball will not only provide an outlet, but as an opportunity to reconcile de la Serre and my Uncle. What they have to regret certainly cannot outweigh the friendship these two shared before!

"I have not received a reply," de la Serre continues hopefully, "but perhaps you both might enlighten me?"

"I had no idea about it until this morning," I admit, tossing a sidelong glance at Lorenzo.

"Amelie is delighted, of course," Lorenzo drawls as though he hadn't heard me. Or forgotten I exist, for that matter. "I don't think she has stopped cheering long enough to take a breath."

A small smile worms its way onto de la Serre's lips and his eyes sparkle triumphantly. "I suppose _that_ was to be expected. Always one for parties. But I suppose that is the way of fame—always awaiting the next social thrill. No such nonsense of a stereotype could convince me otherwise." He chuckles.

A bloom of spine-tingling nostalgia wells up inside of me. I'd forgotten what it sounded like when de la Serre laughed. Memories of spiced tea and long chats by the library fireplace threaten to tear tears from my eyes. I miss those nights when Uncle and de la Serre would sink into the cushions of the paisley armchairs, conjuring a reverie of exciting adventures they'd shared while attending school in London together and a hundred more whilst on business for the Order. I would give anything to have them back.

"I'll be attending if it's the last thing I do," I declare. "I suppose I must go dress shopping today, unless Amelie has something for me to wear, which I'm almost certain she will."

"Today?" De la Serre looks surprised. "Have you enough time? It's nearly noon as it is!"

I pause, brows furrowing in confusion. "Wouldn't I? The ball is not until tomorrow night, yes?"

De la Serre shakes his head. "Good heavens, no! It is _this_ night. One who leaves fashionably late would arrive by eight, at the latest!"

"What—Lorenzo?" I turn to find him scowling, the hood of his brows conjuring a dark gleam from his eyes.

He utters only one word: "Father."

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse de la Serre's crestfallen frown. However, it vanishes the next instant and is replaced by austerity. It appears that Uncle has once again outmaneuvered Lorenzo and me with the intent of sanctioning us from the core of the Order. But why exactly is he so intent in evading de la Serre? Is there truly no hope of ever reuniting them?

"I'll have to have a word with him," Lorenzo continues under his breath. Then, as though he never spoke a word of it, he refocuses on de la Serre with a charming smile. "We will be attending Elise's ball—_tonight_—and the only way of stopping us would be if the entire office of marshalcy themselves dragged us out by our cold, dead hands."

De la Serre doesn't even looked disconcerted as Lorenzo's announcement progressively darkens. It's no surprise; Lorenzo has always had a morbid sense of humor. Call it what you will, but after so long of listening to it, you sort of develop a taste for it. It's dark. It's original. It's Lorenzo.

"Very well," de la Serre murmurs, voice rough and yet noticeably thick, "I will send word to Master Lynette should the two of you require a carriage."

"I don't think that's necessary," I tell him, flashing a mischievous grin. "We've a trick or two up our sleeve."

The subtlest of devilry pulls at de la Serre's lips. He knows very well who I'm speaking of.

Clarisse.

"I'm sure she _does_," he agrees coyly. Then, he straightens and nods to us both. "Then I ask that you travel safely. The streets should prove chaotic given the festivities and I would not like to hear news of any misfortunes tonight." Before he departs, he smiles at us one last time. "Oh, and give my regards to Gilbert. I shall find myself very disappointed should I not receive the same!"


	4. Chapter Three: Clarisse the Saint

_I am an awful person who sucks at updating regularly, please stake me through the heart and drag me to court for being a terrible author. _

_So, yeah, I have made yet another miraculous return! With a short chapter. Not painfully short, but short nonetheless. Once these first few chapters roll through, the plot is, as I've mentioned before, going to be taking a somewhat different route, and that's just about to occur in the next installment. Slow starting story is slow starting. I hope it's not too slow! _

_Anyway, enjoy the chapter you've been waiting three hundred years for!_

_-Toothbrush_

_X _

Pillars of pots and pans avalanche to the kitchen floor with a resounding clatter. I cringe and recoil back into the doorway, one leg on the back step and the other on the cluttered tile. Cookie raises his head from an urn of sunflowers he had been contentedly arranging upon his small dining table. Seemingly despondent, he surveys the damage before lifting his benighted gaze to Lorenzo and I, who are cowering with the door opened only wide enough to glimpse our sheepish winces.

"If there were fireworks, I'm not involved," he intones monotonously.

That's the amusing thing about Cookie: you can never truly make sense of what he is thinking. He only wears one monotonous expression that vaguely resembles a bulldog. His bushy brows are always tautly furrowed over his narrow gray eyes and his mustache hangs like a perpetual frown over his lips. Sometimes it might soften when he's especially content or it will contort ever so slightly if he's especially upset. Other than that, the man and his emotions are an enigma. I don't know if he's even capable of any other expression.

I shuffle in with Lorenzo following closely. I examine the clutter, weighing the severity of the situation, before finally turning back to Cookie. His eyes have not strayed from mine since I entered, but I know that he's already noticed our sad states of dress. Lorenzo's sleeve is still dangling from his waistcoat and I only realized some short time ago that I'm missing one shoe, though I'm sure Cookie could never be more appalled at the thick layers of dirt caked on our slacks than we are. His scrutiny embarrasses me, but it's far more bearable than receiving it from every resident of Paris.

It abruptly occurs to me that Cookie has asked us a question—and that he intends to draw our earlier transgressions from us. Oh, dammit to hell, I can't divulge to him our reunion with de la Serre! Cookie could care less if we visited the estate or not, but if it were relevant in any conversation with my Uncle, Cookie would freely mention it. That's a risk not even Lorenzo would be willing to take. Aspiring florist that he is, Cookie is not usually found occupying our townhouse on weekends and usually visits a flourishing flower shop down the street for inspiration. Had I expected him to be home this time of day, I would have rather climbed to my window sill!

"Uh, there was a bear," I blurt out. Then I wince—a _bear_? _That_ is the best I could impromptu? Strike me down with lightning right now, please. I can't remember an instance that I have ever before blurted out something so obviously deceitful!

"Big, big bear," Lorenzo adds, much to my astonishment. Is he actually hoping to make my faux pas more believable? I receive my answer when he raises his arms above his head. "Carnie bear."

"Big bear," I agree, raising my arms as well in some vain attempt to summon some plausibility to our blunder. "_Big_ bear. Very big. This big."

Cookie's unwavering glare continues to bore into us. His expression neither softens nor hardens and I know that there's no force in heaven or hell that could convince him to believe us.

I lower my arms and shrug, knowing that I appear painfully uncertain. "Carnies, you know? Always out for blood."

"Every one of them," Lorenzo quickly agrees. "Out for blood."

A brief silence fills the kitchen and I try not to fidget under Cookie's uninflected scrutiny. It's so warm in here. Good God, has the floor opened up to a pit of lava? Or is my apprehension grilling me alive? Should Cookie refuse to leave well enough alone, I'm afraid that he might mention our erratic deceit to Uncle, and Uncle is _not_ a man that you can lie to. Even an actor would capitulate under his hawkish discernment. I know that they both mean well, but I would like to keep this secret from wounding our relationship.

Finally, Cookie breaks the silence: "Did the carnies have fireworks?"

Lorenzo and I exchange a glance.

"No," we declare with a measure of confidence. It's excruciatingly obvious that Cookie doesn't believe a word that's left our mouths, but it is apparent that he really doesn't care for us to explain our misadventures. As long as our mischief doesn't wrack up a fortune of debts for Uncle to pay out of pocket, Cookie couldn't care less about how we waste our time.

Unfortunately, he doesn't want to let us off that easy. He nods at Lorenzo's tattered vest; "Didn't know bears fancied cotton so much."

Lorenzo shoves the sleeve further behind his back. "You didn't see the bear."

Cookie pauses for a moment before mumbling, "I bet the bear would have knocked first."

I grimace. He's hinting at the pots and pans. "We'll clean up".

Lorenzo gapes incredulously and folds his arms across his chest. "_We_ will?"

I start to respond, but Cookie interrupts me before I have the chance to utter a sound: "Davenport's the one with the accounting degree. Go ask _him_."

I barely withhold a laugh. Though he is two years my junior, young Jameson Davenport prides himself in his trade. I myself find Davenports analytical cogent admirable as I myself struggle with practicality and realism. However, at times, I do find his lack of emotional depth frustrating; my family and I put faith in our emotions, but Davenport finds such a method impractical. I know that _I'm_ not especially bothered by his crusading practicality (after all, it is the epitome of who he is and I refute to disagree with the opinion, not its crusader), but I do know that it bothers the hell out of Lorenzo. He is easily offended by criticism, even more so than I am.

Intelligent, he irrevocably is, but Cookie doesn't care for bragging and cares even less for mathematics. Unfortunately, Davenport embraces both.

"Gladly," Lorenzo respires as he begins nudging me towards the dining hall doors. I have to raise my knees to avoid stumbling over the utensils. "We'll be on our way, then. I'm sure Davenport will barely be able to contain his excitement."

"I'll wager," Cookie mumbles caustically, turning back to his sunflowers as we exit the kitchen.

Lorenzo and I hurry into the foyer in gross desperation for a change of clothes before we're discovered. Best readjust ourselves before finding Davenport, else he will not be likely to relent as easily as Cookie did.

The stern _clack_ of a heel upon the tile startles us to a halt. Clarisse is standing at the top of the stairs, arms folded austerely across her bosom, dark eyes narrowed and mauve lips curved up in a wry grin.

"I figured you two were up to something," she demurs, cream skirts brushing across the marble steps as she approaches us, hands sliding down the rail. "I took one glance at your clothes this morning—" She regards Lorenzo shrewdly. "—and it was obvious enough for me to guess that Antoinette was involved."5

"He's a menace to society, Clarisse," I sigh in mock exasperation. Lorenzo shoots me a glare. "He just doesn't know when to quit. I'll wager poor Antoinette will forever be paranoid of his presence."

"How could she?" Lorenzo barks. "She didn't know it was me."

"Oh, really? Did you ask her? Your desperation is not so very discreet."

"What's this all about a clutter in the kitchen?" Clarisse interjects purposefully. "Don't try to lie to me—I know what I heard down there."

"We just knocked over some pots," I explain, itching to tear off my clothes and change.

Clarisse seems to notice me fidgeting and raises a brow. "Got ants in your pants, darlin'?" She scrunches her nose. "And why've you got only one shoe?"

I snake my foot around the heel of the other, painfully aware of it now that Clarisse has mentioned it. It was already terrible having to walk around half of town with one shoe missing and then Clarisse had to draw attention to it.

"N-nothing," I stammer, "just a, uh—there was a bear. A big bear. And—"

"Come on, now, you _know_ I'm can't be as hornswoggled as Cookie," Clarisse interrupts sternly. She abruptly bunches one fist against her waist and shields her eyes with the other. "Mother have mercy, tell me you didn't blow up another fruit stand."

Ah, more than one, actually. Probably more than ten.

"If you mean the fireworks," Lorenzo pipes, "then no, there were no fireworks involved."

The hand shielding Clarisse's eyes slides down over her mouth and she glares out over the top with furrowed brows. "Baby, I didn't ask about fireworks. I asked about the vendors."

Lorenzo and I remain silent, uncomfortably so, before Lorenzo swiftly detonates the conversation with a confession: "Father lied about de la Serre's party, Clarisse. It isn't tomorrow night. It's _this_ night. And we know because we met with him only a few hours ago. If you're wondering how that came to be, then I will tell you, but know that it wasn't us who went searching for him. We rescued Arno from an ambush—the blacksmiths were after him—and followed him back to de la Serre's estate to deliver our alibis to the marshalcy, who had also followed Arno there. De la Serre has planned this gala for Elise's indoctrination into our Order and I for one will fight through Heaven and Hell to get there this evening, with or against father's wishes."

Clarisse is speechless by now, only managing to shake her head a few times before her eyelids slip shut in contemplation. Eventually, she lowers her hand and wipes a dab of mauve off on her apron before raising her eyes again. "There's no use in stopping you now, since you'd just leave anyway. I encourage you to go, darlin's. I know what this means to the both of you and I won't be trappin' you in chains for the sake of appeasing Gilbert. He's a man now, he'll learn to accept it." Lorenzo and I breathe our gratitude before Clarisse continues on: "Are you intendin' to tell him, or are you gonna run? Because I advise you to speak to him first."

"_Lorenzo_!"

Ten minutes later, uncle's office door flies open and Lorenzo emerges with a vicious sneer. The bulky frame slams back into the wall and the floor shakes with the force of the impact, startling Clarisse and I from our silent contemplations. His shoulders are squared and tense as he storms out into the hall with deeply set determination. Uncle swerves around his desk and follows suit, expression churning with unbridled rage. I knew that this was a terrible idea.

"Don't you _dare_ turn your back to me when I am speaking to you!" Uncle shouts as he reaches for Lorenzo. He claws at the shoulder pad of Lorenzo's waistcoat and spins him around. Now nose to nose, Lorenzo a mere few inches taller, Uncle raises an accusing finger, barely withholding his unfurled fury. "You do _not_ turn your back to _me_. I am well versed in your manipulating guilt. I will _not_ be deterred—not when _I_ am the figure of authority in this household. And while you are living under _my_ roof, you will _not_ disrespect me."

Lorenzo's expression remains unchanged throughout the exchange, but the tell-tale twitch of his lips is inclination enough to know that he has surpassed every orthodox boundary of frustration and might result to petty retorts and malicious humor to feign control over the situation. He only turns to such malice out of desperation when trying to save face.

"Then bully me all you like, father," he seethes, now the very epitome of malevolence. "Why not handcuff me to my bed to make things easier for yourself? Perhaps charge me with petty larceny to have me arrested? Not even the God himself could keep me from that ceremony."

"Don't you speak so blasphemously," Uncle snaps, grip tightening on Lorenzo's waistcoat until his hand drain of color and begins to shake. "You can say such things anywhere else, but _not here_. All I ask from you is respect—"

"And apparently to also denounce childhood friends," Lorenzo counters.

"I have asked for no such thing!"

A strained crack of laughter escapes Lorenzo's lips. That ominous smile resurfaces wholly this time. "You asked that from me the day you dragged me out of de la Serre's estate. No caution, no explanation. Not even a chance to say goodbye."

Uncle grips Lorenzo by both shoulders now, shaking him desperately as though hoping to bring him to his senses. "I did what I had to!" he exclaims. "I did what had to be done because I wanted to protect you! Protect you and your cousin from what would have ultimately destroyed us all!"

"And yet she was still initiated not a month later, wasn't she, father?" Lorenzo chuckles rancorously. "What exactly have these six years of silence wrought besides pain?"

I tense until my limps are so rigid the muscles clench in protest. And yet _I_ was still initiated not a month later. Then Uncle did mean to protect me from becoming integral to the Order. He was infuriated because I was assimilated despite his efforts to keep me from becoming inoculated. Shortly after I met de la Serre, my mother left for Kent and I have not seen her since. Had she been forced to keep her distance from me because of her initial loyalty to the Templars? Even then, Elise and Arno had no part in my fate, so why is he targeting them? If he were just concerned about de la Serre, he would have at the very least asked us to visit them outside of his estate or elsewhere where de la Serre was not nearby. And even _then_, what exactly was so terrible about the whole arrangement that would have destroyed us all?

I raise a hand to rub my temple. Why is Uncle so afraid of the Templars if he was the one who made the decision to sink his own life into their echelon? Was his decision even consensual? I know mine wasn't. He's led me to believe that there was never any underlying motivation to my inauguration, but now I'm being led to believe that there was always a hidden agenda concerning _my life_. If I'm being completely honest, it's intimidating and a little frightening to think that my life was never mine to live. That all of this was decided by some ulterior motif. It hurts to think that no one has completely laid out the Order's cards to me, that my Uncle has most likely kept me from them for that very reason.

I'm so confused I don't know _what_ to think. Maybe I'm looking too far into this? After all, it's just an argument.

"My sole intention is to protect you," Uncle repeats. "The Order is less forgiving than you think, than any of you think. It is dangerous if the Game is not played correctly."

"They why not let us practice?" Lorenzo quips.

"I don't have to explain my reasoning to you!"

"Why the hell can't you?!"

"All I ask is for you to trust my judgement!"

Both Uncle and Lorenzo are breathless now, petulantly daring the other to back down. But they know as well as I do that their war is perpetual.

"Do _not_ attend that ball," Uncle rasps, voice hoarse from shouting. "If you do, I cannot protect you."

A growl of contempt rattles in Lorenzo's chest. He shoves Uncle's hand from his shoulder and steps away with an air of hostility, much to Uncle's dismay. It occurs to me then that this is a crucial moment in both their lives. This is the pinnacle of a six years distress. Hoping that one will relent to appease the other is as witless as expecting a bull not to charge. In spite of their differences, both Uncle and Lorenzo are inheritably stubborn and would rather throw themselves under the wheels of a carriage than surrender. Their resolve is tighter than a coiled cobra and I fear what their resolve might induce. I hate to even conceive of it, but this could be detrimental to their relationship, perhaps even shatter it forever. All over a ridiculous party.

"Then you'd best hammer the last nail into my coffin, father," Lorenzo sneers. "Because we _will_ be attending that ball tonight. With or against your approval."

The sheer venom seeping from his lips burns through Uncle's coat and he clenches his jaw in hopes of soothing the sting. His eyes flash violently and I almost expect him to throw his weight at Lorenzo and beat the submission into him. He then abruptly jerks away and tosses a vengeful glare at me. The disappointment churning in his eyes pierces though my heart, but I refuse to reveal the emotions threatening to spill down my cheeks. I don't know what else to do but stand silently and wait for the verdict, though I know that no amount of preparation will save me from collapsing into a bawling mess should he continue to berate our better judgement. Should that occur, I know that I will surrender to his wishes.

"Then go," he breathes, softly and bereft of his earlier passion. The defeat in his voice winds me. "Go and have your fun. Enjoy what thrills remain. How unforgiving it will be should you not fill yourself with fruit before it spoils. Who am I to deny you that?"

He then reenters his office, pausing in the doorway only long enough to cast Lorenzo one last sorrowful grimace over his shoulder. "I pray that you find what you are looking for."

With a whispered chafing against the hardwood floor, the door slips closed. Then the world is silent. It remains so for what seems like eternity as I struggle to hold fast to my resolve. I want to attend Elise's ball more than anything, but my eagerness hurts my uncle. Hurting him deeply wounds me, more than I let on. Inside, I am on the verge of crumbling. I want to throw myself at his door and weep and beg for him to be happy again. The weakened half of me wants to hurl my fist through a wall. I want to ease his distress and calm my own, but I cannot resign now. Not after six years. Elise and Arno deserve an explanation from Lorenzo and I and I deeply feel that, should Lorenzo and I remain at the townhouse, we will never have another chance to reconcile.

This is a crucial moment. A moment in which I must make the most difficult decision of my life yet. To surrender would mean turning my back on my childhood forever. To leave, however, would mean closure and, most probably, regaining a part of myself that was lost six years ago, left to wither within the walls of the de la Serre estate. It would mean reviving a family. Not to mention that I have time to reconcile with Uncle later after all is said and done.

Lorenzo seems to be of the same mind. He turns his pointed gaze to Clarisse and approaches her. "Have you made the arrangements?" he inquires, still intent on hiding his vulnerability with a haughty air.

Clarisse looks comically flabbergasted. "What, you still wanna go after that? Is there something _wrong_ with you?"

"Have you made the arrangements or not?" Lorenzo snaps. I shoot him a warning leer.

Clarisse blows the silvery strands from her eyes and shrugs. "Yes, I made the arrangements. Moments ago, actually. Davenport has the horses around back, carriage and all, now that the kitchen's cleaned up." She glances between us, undoubtedly noticing the color has drained from my face. "Are you both sure that this is really what you want?"

"Er, can you help me get dressed?" I ask quietly, smoothing over my pants. I don't trust myself to enter a debate with Clarisse. She'll convince me to stay if I do. "Amelie still has some dresses in the attic, doesn't she? Do you think we might ask her for permission to browse her chests?"

Clarisse sighs in exasperation, thankfully deciding not to press any further. "If that's what you want to do, then I don't see why not. Amelie's not here, though—she rushed off earlier to meet a friend of hers at that fashion convention in Versailles. An Englishman, she said, or somethin' other."

"I need a dress," I implore. "Do you think she would mind terribly if I borrowed one? I promise I wouldn't ruin it."

Clarisse scoffs. "Has she ever minded before? That woman's enough dresses to outfit every single one of Marie Antoinette's cats."

I bark a laugh. Her Highness owns more cats than she does shoes. Hopefully Antoinette du Clure will set her own priorities that straight someday.

Lorenzo squares his shoulders and starts down the hall towards his room. "Let me throw on a suit and I'll meet you outside."

With that said, Clarisse shuffles me off to Amelie's room to search for a dress. Approaching my room, I pause and cast a shy smile at Clarisse. She sighs and shakes her head, already guessing at my intentions.

"Honey, I don't think the invitation extends to stuffed animals," she teases, sounding more like a mother than my own could have ever hoped to be. A familiar deep-seated longing wells within me; I've always missed my mother and wondered where she'd disappeared to after Uncle had legally accepted me as his ward, but I find myself more so each day enraptured with the idea of Clarisse being my biological mother. She is the most amazing woman I've ever had the honor of knowing and I long for her to know just how profoundly I love and admire her.

"Oh, I wasn't planning on _that_," I mumble half-heartedly, fighting off a sheepish grin. "I just…wanted to say goodbye. He's been cooped up in there all day. I feel guilty about leaving him alone."

Clarisse chuckles and, again, shakes her head. "All right, all right. But you'd best hurry—you don't have much time now before you leave for Elise's ball!"

X


	5. Update

So I have a new idea for this series, one that I am currently acting on and will be continuing to post sometime in the near future. I'm just so damn easily sidetracked I forgot to post the shift in plot earlier! I'm an idiot!

Basically, every chapter beyond this point was part of the original plot line. I considered deleting them from the story completely, but I figure that there might be use for them a little further down the road. Just a few edits here and there and Ta-Dah!

Anyway, sorry about this, but hey, thanks for the follows and favorites anyway! C :

Toothbrush


	6. Dawn of Doubts

**AN: Just to be clear, this IS a Reader-Insert, but it's presented in first person perspective. I could rewrite it so that it's second perspective, but I find that particular perspective a hella lot more awkward to write. It's all about having fun while writing, not making it uncomfortable for yourself, ya know? I know it's not the most traditional approach to a Reader Insert story, so if it's distracting and/or bothersome, then let me know and I'll make some second perspective adjustments :3 (First fic on this site and all, so you get it.)**

** A quick overview: You're the niece of the Marquis de Lafayette, an elite Templar who took you in as his ward after your mother died of tuberculosis. You've got a long line of Templars in your family history, so you've never thought to question what the Order truly entails. However, a fated encounter with a handsome Assassin (spoilers—it's Arno) leaves you confused, corrupted, and deeply in love. But after you agree to assist him in his endeavor to rescue a sister Assassin, your whole world flips upside-down and backwards—the Marquis seems to be involved in something tyrannical; your cousin Lorenzo disappears (most likely to join your foes); the new Templar Grandmaster, Germain, seems to have connections to the deceased de la Serra's death; King Louis' son, the young Dauphine, is in peril of being executed; the Scarlet Pimpernel has swept onto the scene in lieu of the Reign of Terror; Robespierre not only believes that you are involved in the Pimpernel's gallant endeavors, but utilizes your earlier betrayal as blackmail to force you into assisting him in wiping out the Pimpernel **_**and**_** the Brotherhood—and Arno has reentered your life, leaving not only your life at stake, but your heart as well. Then the Marquis is branded a traitor for assisting the rescue of the Dauphine, taking your place on the guillotine's bed—and in Robespierre's eyes, if one man is branded a traitor, then so is his entire family. The only chance for survival calls for drastic measures and you're forced to do the one thing you swore you would never do: Betray the Order. To make matters worse, Arno is convinced that Elise is the love of his life! But even before her untimely death, there is an inexplicable force that somehow unites you and the bizarre emotions you hold for him only intensify. Was it chance that the two of you met—or destiny? True love is taking more prisoners and fate has more in store for you than ever imagined. Now the question is: What will be the final nail in your coffin Six Feet Under?**

** Oh, by the by, there's gonna be some NSFW, violence, and some cursing. But what else would you expect from a M-Rated story? (Another spoiler: it's a happy ending. I don't do that tongue thing—er, Final Destination thing. Well, at least, not for the Main Character.) **

** And so, I hope you enjoy the Prologue!**

**The Toothbrush **

_Thwack_. The heavy collision echoed through the courtyard as a second head rolled off the guillotine's bed and into the hands of the executioner. He hoisted it high like a jolly roger, triumphant and challenging. The crowd roared its approval and the executioner cast the bloodied stump into a bin below the platform.

I lowered my head in silent commemoration. Undoubtedly not even a quarter of the crowd knew the man they'd just chanted death to. Unfortunately, however, I did. His name was Salvé Santoro and he was a friend of my uncle's, however weak a relation he was dabbling in history and archaeology. Even despite his vocation, I had found him to be quite an extraordinary man. He had traveled the world twice in search of an ancient treasure revealed in scriptures and had returned with more than a dozen archaic artifacts as gifts on many occasions.

My uncle's shoulder pressed against mine. I raised my head. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, held at bay only by pride, and still he offered me a reassuring smile. Uncle was an incredible man. Outwardly calloused and stern, but in reality he was one of the most sensitive people I knew besides my late mother. After she had passed from tuberculosis, my uncle had been kind enough to take me in as his ward. I never regretted joining his household. I looked up to him in so many different ways, and this was one of them; no matter that Salvé Sanatoro's death weighed heavily on him, he first wanted to be sure that I was all right before tending to his own despair.

"Robespierre is going to pay for that," my cousin Lorenzo growled on my right. "I'll make him pay."

"You will do no such zing," my uncle growled. Lorenzo shot him a chilling glare. "We are already suspected arbitrators of ze state for your plot to free Salv from prison," uncle continued, softening the blow of his words. "Ze two of you are fortunate zat you were not caught in ze act. 'Ad you been reprimanded, you would not only be betraying your own necks to ze guillotine, but your comrades' as well."

To hell with our comrades! I wanted to shout. They're the reason Salvé is dead!

But perhaps that is why it is referred to as the Templar _Order_, not the Templar Brotherhood. If my uncle, cousin or I were to attempt _any_ sort of fiasco, our "comrades" would have no trouble throwing us before the executioner as quickly as they would an assassin. The thought of facing the guillotine's wicked blade made my stomach churn, but I would have readily sacrificed myself for my uncle or cousin. But if I had been successful in replacing them, then not only I would be tried as a traitor. My entire family would be slaughtered before a berating mass of murderers in retribution for my sacrifice. We would all be branded for death, and that was a terrifying reality.

"One day, father," Lorenzo hissed. "One day one of us is going to be standing up there, condemned for merely pissing in his garden, and the whole rest of us will be paraded around like pigs ready for slaughter for the sake of weeding out every single relation to the man who pissed in Robespierre's garden—"

I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of the executioner bellowing out, "This man has been condemned for the crime of pissing in the great and honorable Robespierre's garden!"

What, you think that's funny? Then you get to be executed, too.

But uncle remained stern, his brows drawn taut together as he eyed the small group of Templars surrounding us. Fortunately, they were too busy drinking their wine and gossiping to be bothered with my cousin's talk of mutiny.

He turned back to Lorenzo. "I agree zat Salvé's execution was entirely absurd and unnecessary—"

"He was branded a traitor for simply traveling out of the country!" Lorenzo waved his hand in frustration. "God forbid the man who'd rather study ancient bricks than be imprisoned by the perpetual idiocy rampaging through our bloody streets!"

Another unfortunate soul was being dragged up the platform stairs now. It was a woman from what I could tell; her flaxen hair was cropped barely short enough to reach her ears and her tunic hid any other clues I might have derived from her body structure. What led me to believe that she was female was the intensity of her hazel eyes. Several times before I had witnessed that same determination in other women, the determination that came with pride for one's femininity while facing a man-eats-woman world. Perhaps it was just a gut feeling—the same look could belong to any young boy—but I would not be persuaded to believe that she was anything other than a woman.

The faint glimmer of an insignia on her belt caught my eye.

It appeared that she was an assassin, too. Poor bastard.

One of Robespierre's men began reading aloud a list of crimes committed as the guards slammed her down onto the guillotine's bed. I vaguely mused that she had probably not committed even half of the crimes listed; she looked far too slight to be lethal, let alone menacing.

"_Se taire_ (be silent), Lorenzo!" Uncle snapped quietly, recapturing my attention on the conversation. "We may discuss such affairs behind closed doors—not in public. It is too dangerous to speak 'ere in ze open."

"I can speak whenever I damn feel like it!" Lorenzo cried. Several of the Templar gentlemen paused and glanced warily at him. "Why are we allowing this to happen? Because we're selfish bastards who'd rather plunge the dagger into someone else's heart than our own!"

"Lorenzo—" Uncle hissed curtly.

"I refuse to turn a blind eye, father!" Lorenzo continued as though he hadn't heard him. The guards were forcing the woman's neck beneath the blade's shadow on the block. My eyes caught sight of a beaked hood through the crowd. "I've felt ashamed for many things, but I have never felt more ashamed than I do now, for giving in to a petty excuse to save my neck. Robespierre isn't a man, father—he is a tyrant!"

The blast of a pistol resounded through the courtyard. The world ceased to spin as I watched the man reciting the list on the guillotine's platform crumple to the ground like a ragdoll. In a matter of seconds, the crowd transformed into a wailing mass desperately fleeing for their lives. The guards restraining the assassin immediately called their comrades to arms, quickly reaching for their rapiers—before two cloaked men rained down from the rooftops above and slammed their blades all the way through until they protruded from their backs. The executioner, however large he was, attempted to dive off the side of the platform, but a man wielding an axe appeared from out of nowhere and sliced his leg clean off. Blood spurted from the stump and splashed onto the few onlookers who had yet to escape. They cried out and covered their faces.

When my ears ceased to ring and I was finally conscious enough to realize that the execution had been ambushed by assassins, I turned to my uncle and cousin. Uncle was already gone; he forged through the undulating masses with a fervor that juxtaposed his old age. The other Templars had already leapt over the box seat railing and were following him closely. A strayed assassin met them halfway to the guillotine and put up a hell of a fight before my uncle ripped through the crowd and slashed lethally across his back.

His allies were in a hurry to release their captured friend by the guillotine. They were surrounded by guards climbing up from every edge of platform and I could sense that they knew their limitations on time; my uncle was not a foot from the stairwell and they had only just arrived.

I suddenly had a vague realization that Lorenzo was still standing beside me and turned to him inquisitively. "What, no retaliation?" I said.

His eyes glinted ominously. "This is retaliation enough for me," he growled.

It occurred to me that he was still in shock from Salve's death and that that was the reason why he chose to be uninvolved. However, my more intuitive side felt a sort of relief roll off from his shoulders and a sinister fascination resided in his darkened eyes as he observed the assassins wage war with our comrades in arms. It was then that I knew that this day would change us both forever, though I did not yet know how.

What truly startled me into this epiphany was the fact that I myself had not moved yet from the balcony.

The woman was freed within moments and she tore away from her allies to retrieve the blade of a fallen enemy. Another assassin—tall, hooded, and clad in an elongated navy-blue tailcoat—emerged from the last scattered group of frightened citizens. He stopped below the platform, a mere second away from the Templar fortress forging through the onslaught, and raised his hand up to the woman. She noticed him almost immediately and staggered over to take his hand. He easily hoisted her down and he and another assassin led her to an alley out of harm's way. I doubted my uncle even noticed the three of them he was so overwhelmed between the bewildered bystanders dodging in and out of his reach and the enemies' attempts to halt him.

It was then that I took matters into my own hands. Drawing my hood down over my brows, I leapt onto the balcony railing and clambered up onto the awning.

"Cousin!" Lorenzo shouted from beneath me. I spared him nary a glance. "Is this not adequate revenge for our fallen friend? Do you wish to stop them?"

"I have no idea!" I answered with a grunt as I heaved myself the rest of the way onto the rooftop. "I'm making it up as I go!"

"Then here's a stellar idea for you—get off the damn roof!"

He obviously hadn't noticed the woman making her escape. I couldn't waste time explaining myself if I was going to catch them in time.

I closed the gaps between the Thieves' Highways and had soon stumbled my way to a close enough distance that I could distinguish the three assassins. They zigzagged through alleyways below me, leaping over drunkard's legs and forgotten garbage. The two men, however, were constantly reaching over to assist the woman, but she stubbornly pushed them away. I understood their reasons for not using the rooftops; the guards would recognize them a mile away and there were already a few patrolling the edges, scanning the niches between buildings for any fleeing adversaries.

Lucky for me, I'd remembered to don my cloak. Uncle had distributed them to the Templar initiatives some years back when I'd first begun my training, and the guards recognized them. The only reason I'd thought to actually pull it out of its dusty drawer today was for the sake of hiding my tears. It wasn't wise to cry in front of powerful men who judged any sort of emotion as weakness.

But now wasn't the time to contemplate my standing in the Order.

I turned to the officers roaming the rooftops behind me, about to call them over, when I felt my foot slipping. The tile capitulated beneath my toes and in the next instant, I found myself toppling over the side of the building. A small yelp caught in my throat as the overcast clouds dissipated from view—and then I was submerged in white. White everywhere. The only thought that came to mind was, What a stupendous way to die.

But just as quickly as I had sunken into the benighted abyss, I was pulled out by the arms. Dazed and disoriented, I awkwardly kicked my leg over the side of the wagon of heaped daisies and staggered into the stalwart arms of the blue-cloaked assassin.

I panicked. There was _no way_ I could take on three assassins singlehandedly. Uncle could probably fight them solo with both hands tied behind his back. But I wasn't uncle. I was nothing more than a novice. I averted my eyes nervously, heart pounding in my esophagus, and stepped away from the offensive embrace.

Before I could even make a grab for my sword, the woman scoffed and scuffed her boot. "Damn Bellec," she growled. "Ze last thing we need is another 'and to 'old. Why ze 'ell send reinforcements? We're doing just fine without zem!"

Relief washed through me. They thought I had been sent by an ally and weren't going to kill me. Then a light flashed on above my head. There was no reason to panic now; all I had to do was feign ignorance and use their trust against them. They wouldn't know what's coming!

"Does 'e underestimate me?" the woman continued pugnaciously. She was leaning against the wall, pressing hard down on her thigh to stop the blood that bubbled down her bare leg like a waterfall. She needed medical attention—and fast. "_Sacrebleu_—one jab to ze leg won't stop me! I am perfectly capable of protecting myself!"

She was a lot more menacing than I'd originally believed.

"Appreciation is a virtue you need practice, sister," one of the men chuckled. He straightened his waistcoat and belt. His weapon—an axe—glinted in the afternoon light.

I raised my head then, hoping for some crazy reason that I'd find myself staring at half-melted, ugly faces (hopefully then my betrayal would not seem so cruel in my mind because any betrayal was deplorable). What I found instead left me bereft of thought and reason.

The assassin, the one clad in the handsome blue tailcoat, who had braved the masses in the square, who had rescued me from my flowery grave—had the most startling eyes I'd ever seen. I'd heard from many that brown was such an uncreative eye color to possess, that it was bland and held no wisdom or emotion. While I had never quite believed that myself, I had still found a new reason to disagree completely. Those who believed brown eyes were heinous had obviously never seen them worn quite like this. There was such a mixture of emotion held in them, reassuring and comforting as any embrace would be. And that is exactly what those eyes did to me—they embraced me, soothed me, and I suddenly discovered that I would not have the heart to betray him in any way. The thought should have disgusted me. I had crossed the line into traitorous territory and the Templars, should they ever discover my intentions, would execute me on the spot. But instead I only felt solace. I was in a peaceful state of mind that was too beguiling and far too fascinating to resist.

Was this what they called love at first sight? Impossible, and yet…

He turned from me to address the others: "Bellec knew the city would be well guarded this morning. It's only natural that he would assume the worst. And I'm sure he had other intentions rather than dispatching an agent to assist us."

"Oh, yeah?" The woman chuckled scornfully. "And what might zat be, oh wise one?"

The corners of his lips twitched involuntarily. "He sent her to bring you back to the bureau, of course."

The woman's eyes were alight with a kindled fury. "I am perfectly capable of returning zere myself! I need no help—especially not from a lap dog who walks old women across ze street."

Wow. Could you be any more condescending?

"I trust Bellec's judgment," the man continued patiently. "Axeman and I can cause a rouse and distract the guards while you make your escape." The woman began to sputter incoherently though a foaming mouth of rage, but he ignored her and turned back to me instead. "Can you take her to the cathedral, Notre Dame? It's been deserted by guards in lieu of the execution. We had decided to reunite there once we'd rescued Annetta, but with the pace the guards travel compared to her, I fear she might not make it before they corner us."

I leaned sideways until I could see past his shoulder. The injured woman—who I now knew was Annetta—was spouting fluent French at Axeman, not happy in the slightest that she was going to be assisted by an old woman walker. I realized that the reason the other two probably couldn't simply just carry her to Notre Dame was because she was too proud to be hefted around like a sack of sugar. Bitter sugar that she was. She caught my curious glace and returned it with a glare that could rival Lorenzo's in fatality. What a pair they would make. I quickly averted my gaze to be polite and refocused on the man towering before me. He looked so hopeful and determined. I felt that he knew I would succeed, that he believed in me and trusted me to save his injured friend.

It was then that a new epiphany struck me like a bolt of lightning: they genuinely cared for one another. They were practically siblings they cared so passionately for each other. Even though Annetta was absolutely deranged with fury right now, I could see that there was a fierce adoration in her eyes for her brothers who came to her rescue. She didn't want to let them down. Even Axeman looked relieved beyond words to know that there was hope for his dearest sister, hope that she would survive the mission and would live to see another dawn.

Dawn. Never had the word sounded so out of context. It was as though a new world was dawning upon mine, a whole new universe that glittered with golden understanding. Until now, I had been a slave to my livelihood. My family had been versed in the Templar cause for generations upon generations. It was only natural that I assume the same role my father and his father before him had. There was never doubt, never a question, in my mind that wondered if the Creed was truly as parasitic as the Templars claimed. And now, well…now, I wasn't sure what to believe. But I did know that I craved the closeness these three had with one another, the love and acceptance that was given without restraint, even when their friend was so weak and crippled.

Perhaps this is why it was called the Assassin's _Brotherhood_, not Order.

"I'll help however I can," I heard myself speak. The surreal situation suddenly became much more tangible; I was about to betray my own order to help the people I'd been sworn to loathe since birth. And I didn't feel one damn lick of doubt in my mind that this was the right thing to do. How can that be, you ask? Looking back on it now, I believe it was fate that lead me there. It was fate that I met them and fate had more in store for me than I could have ever imagined.

The man smiled. It was heartwarming and genuine and I melted like butter. "_Merci, mon sauveur_ (Thank you, my savior). I will not forget this kindness."

"Why?" Annetta muttered, sounding resigned but not defeated. "That's what she's been 'ired to _do_."

I shot her a shrewd smile. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

"Then Bellec didn't send you?" Axeman rubbed his stubble thoughtfully, a playful smirk materializing out from beneath his hood. "Are we expected to believe you just fell from Heaven for the sole purpose of guiding us?"

Was that a compliment? I wasn't sure, so I just shrugged nervously. "Not exactly."

Well what else could I say? They were probably growing suspicious of my intentions already, although Axeman looked vaguely satisfied.

"Then it appears we have an _ange_ (angel) in our midst," the blue-clad man chuckled before me. "If you please, take Annetta to Notre Dame and wait there for us to return. We'll discuss your payment then."

Payment? I'd been hired by some "Bellec" character and was supposed to expect payment for merely lugging an injured woman to a deserted cathedral? Guilt suddenly set in at the mere thought of being rewarded for betraying my order.

I shook my head. "Payment isn't necessary. I'm doing this because I want to, not for any incentive."

He shook his head right back, that smile still lingering patiently on his lips. "_Se il vous plait_ (Please)_,_ I insist. I would not feel right _without_ doing so."

I'd never pondered whether or not French could sound so musical coming from a man, but once again, I'd found another reason to believe differently. It truly was the language of love because I was falling in love with him right then.

"If you insist," I responded shyly.

I went to Annetta then and introduced myself: "Good morning, Miss Annetta. It seems that I will be assisting you across the street." She merely grunted, unimpressed, but allowed me to hook my arm around her back. "To Notre Dame we go."

The blue-clad assassin stopped us before we exited the alley. "_Merci, mademoiselle _(Thank you, miss)," he murmured, eyes glimmering with sincerity. "You cannot fathom how grateful I am to you."

If he cared any more for Annetta, I'd believe they were lovers. The thought didn't sit well with me, but just like that, I had discovered a newfound respect for the Brotherhood, and a simultaneous corruption in my heart.

"Do not thank me, _monsieur_," I admitted grimly. "Pray for me."

I made good on my word. I protected Annetta nail and teeth to the cathedral and lead her inside to install sanctuary upon us both, though I only came neck-and-neck with a drunken guard and a furious shop owner and that was the extent of our adversity. The sights inside did not capture my fascination, no matter how gorgeous and magnanimous they were; I was too wrought with worry and decadence to acknowledge them today. But I had crafted a plan in mind to keep both my identity and career safe: I was going to leave Annetta in the church and make my way back to my uncle's house before nightfall. If I arrived before him, he wouldn't question my efficiency and I could sleep somewhat peacefully tonight believing that this act of betrayal would never occur to haunt me again. How ridiculous it was to believe such a notion. Still, I was a ridiculous person, anyway.

Carefully, I set Annetta down in a pew and turned to leave.

However, she wouldn't be so easily persuaded to let me go. "Why did you 'elp us?" she asked bluntly, voice echoing through the chapel.

I sighed. How could I have ever thought it would be so easy to escape from her? I turned and shrugged nonchalantly at her. "What do you mean? I was sent to—"

"No, you weren't," she snapped churlishly. Damn, had she seen through my disguise? "I know you weren't sent by Bellec. Your clumsiness deduces zat much, for certain. But zere must be a reason why you decided to 'elp us. People don't just fall from ze sky claiming to be some form of 'eavenly apparition."

"That wasn't me who said that," I pointed out. "That was your friend."

"Axeman saw more to you," she continued impatiently. "And so do I. You're transparent, madam, and I know zat you are no assassin. An ally, perhaps, but not an assassin."

Oh, if only she knew how wrong—and right—she was. It was ironically humorous.

"I would be happy to discuss the nuances with you," I countered facetiously, stepping backwards, "but I have my own business to attend to."

Annetta began to rise from the pew, but her face became awash with pain and she crumbled back onto her seat. "You damn _chienne_ (bitch)! Do you kiss your 'usband with zat tongue?"

I scoffed and pushed the heavy front doors open, "I would if I _had_ a husband. Sorry, Annetta, but I must _adieu_."

"At least you managed to speak it correctly," I heard her mumble before the large doors collapsed together behind me.

I arrived at my uncle's home just minutes from the sun setting. It was raining now and my clothes felt heavier than a sack of weights upon my shoulders. My legs shook weakly as I forced my bedroom window open and clambered inside. I tore off my cape and threw it on the bed. I caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror across the room. Lord, I couldn't remember a time that I looked so horrendous; my hair was an absolute rat's nest, acne had bubbled on my face from the mixture of sweat and stress, my makeup had rubbed off, and my eyes were rimmed with red. Quickly, I washed my face off with a rag one of the maids had left on my dresser and burst into the hallway.

"Uncle?" I called. I was met with an eerie silence. Lord, no—tell me the assassins hadn't claimed his life!

I rushed down the corridor and onto the foyer's stairwell landing, frantically searching over the balcony for any form life. Everything looked orderly, but I felt the sinking sensation that I was not the only one who had forced my way inside. Call it a sixth sense, but I could sense an intrusion a mile away.

"Clarisse!" I shouted. Clarisse was the oldest maid on the planet, but she was damn well the strongest. She'd been my nanny when I was younger and she had still been at least five and fifty with a virility that had easily kept up with my antics. When she didn't answer, I _knew_ something was wrong. "Clarisse, where are you?!"

"Good evening, _mademoiselle_."

I whirled around to face the intruder, about to reach for my pistol, though it wouldn't have done me any good. The rain had soaked through my clothes and, unfortunately, into the barrel of the magnum. But in the next instant, all thoughts of protecting myself dissipated and a surge of inexplicable emotions overwhelmed me—it was the blue-clad assassin! He was approaching me slowly, patiently, the tail-end of his cloak swaying and brushing against the backs of his thighs. The light of the foyer chandelier cast his shadow against the walls and it trailed behind him like a larger-than-life apparition. He truly appeared like a phantom; silent and precise with a musically beguiling voice. I didn't doubt that his voice could put La Carlotta's to shame.

My cheeks bloomed in embarrassment. I was certainly no Christine; not when I looked so horribly hideous and soaked to the bone. Then I began to panic. The tautness of his lips made him look vaguely menacing and I knew that he would not leave until he had what he'd come for. Another thought struck me—did he recognize me? My heart catapulted into my throat. If he knew who I was, what would he do to me? Was that why he had come? Did he know who I was? But if that were so, why did he seem to trust me with Annetta? If he didn't know who I was now, would he recognize my voice if I spoke? Good God, how could the enemy entice me so? Such a man was obviously sent to torment me.

"Where is the marquis?" he asked in a polite yet commanding voice. I must have looked like an imbecile standing there with my mouth flopped open like a dying fish—he had just appeared before me like Cupid come to claim his Persephone for God's sake!—because he sighed and moved closer until I could practically taste his delicious aftershave. "The Marquis de Lafayette. Where is he?"

Relief followed my first thought; he hadn't recognized me. But then the realization of his intentions sunk in—he was targeting my uncle! The idea was not surprising, but nor was it uninteresting. No matter how beautiful he was, I would never let him lay a finger on my uncle, so I decided that a dumb woman is a smart woman.

"The marquis?" I stammered innocently. I confess: I am, unfortunately, a very good liar. That says something unethical about me, but it is a fact and something that must be stated for the record. "I—I have no idea, _monsieur_, I am a mere chambermaid here. I was hired last week—I don't know where the marquis spends his time."

"Have you not heard the news of his latest conquest?" His voice was rough and passionate. I processed the information. My uncle's "latest conquest"? Did he believe my uncle had ordered Annetta's execution? "You are drenched and it only started raining moments ago. Do not expect me to believe that you were frolicking around in the freezing downpour for the last half hour. Forgive my impatience, but this is a matter of tyranny and freedom. I've no time to play games."

Damn, he'd caught me. Well, _normally_ I was an excellent liar, but we all have our off days. "I am sorry, _monsieur_," I spoke feebly, "but I am not the one to question. I have no idea where the marquis could be at this time—I thought he would be home hours ago! I ventured out, but I have yet to meet him."

That wasn't a lie in any sense and I patted myself on the back for managing to worm my way out of a shaky alibi.

He looked to believe me. "My apologies if I frightened you." And where on Earth had he suddenly remembered to be polite? "Though I do suspect you know something that you aren't telling me. I don't believe that any intelligent being could lurk unconsciously among Templars. If anything, they mascaraed among them—and I suspect that you yourself are well versed in their schemes or you would not have an occupation working under one…Unless you are not who you claim to be."

The way his eyes studied me rekindled the dark desire of my heart. Had I truly fallen in love with the forbidden fruit? This had to be fate—no force on heaven or earth could make me believe otherwise. These emotions were far too powerful to refute and I wondered if he felt the same.

"It doesn't matter what you think of me, _monsieur—"_ An obvious lie; I wished with all my heart that he would reciprocate my bizarre feelings. "—but I will honestly tell you that I have no idea where you could find the marquis. The last I saw of him was at the courtyard and I'm afraid I haven't seen him since. I swear this on my life."

His lips twisted into a petulant frown. My stomach churned. God, his lips were gorgeous.

"Have we…" He seemed to be struggling for words. "Might we have met, per chance?"

My insides liquefied in a mixture of hope and fear. He had recognized my voice, hadn't he? "We might have," I said nonchalantly. "It is a small world, after all."

His eyes absorbed into mine and left me bereft of breath for what seemed like a countless time that day. "Then we have, haven't we? When you speak so philosophically, I…it leads me to believe that you know more than I do. That you're…hiding something from me."

It seemed my voice _had_ given me away. The thought intrigued me as much as it did frighten me. I was a traitor, the epitome of disgrace, and I did not want him to discover my identity. I did not want him to think less of me or think that my betrayal meant that I was desperate for an escape from the Order. It was all I knew. All I had. I could not join his brethren in their fight. It was neither my cause nor my calling.

Or was it? I didn't know anymore.

"Anything is possible, _monsieur_," I divulged, "even the impossible. I've come to discover that for myself. Therefore, I wholeheartedly believe that we might have met."

I could not stomach lying to him, which was probably why I had such difficultly doing so earlier. It left a bad taste in my mouth. I wanted to come clean to him, but stopped myself before I shattered the moment. I couldn't be sure what he'd want from me if he did know that I was his enemy. I couldn't bring myself to take the chance.

He nodded and turned to leave out the balcony door. It was rather odd, watching an assassin just stroll out through a door of my uncle's home like he was departing after sharing crumpets and tea. It was so surreal and I might have felt like I'd entered some deranged alternate universe if I hadn't felt so discombobulated. I didn't want him to leave, but I couldn't ask him to stay. I wondered again—did he feel even an inkling of what I felt? Did he believe he had met me due to a premonition of fate, or had it been a product of our earlier rendezvous?

Before he reached the balcony's railing, he glanced over his shoulder at me. The rain slightly obscured him from my view. "I've been wrong before, madam, but I have the premonition that we'll someday meet again."

An odd conception, but strangely, I felt the same way. "We might just," I agreed at length. "Until then, watch your back."

I had ended my charade then and knew that he knew it, too. But I didn't care. Hell, I'd just rescued one of his own today. There were a lot of things that had yet to sink in past the convoluted barrier of this dream-like world I was trapped within. They'd yet to surface up to reality. He seemed disinterested, but I knew he was thinking, _I knew it was a charade from the beginning_. If he had not met me in my uncle's home, he would have never suspected that I was a Templar. But now that he had met me and knew whose side I had chosen, I wondered if he now felt as conflicted as I did, or if our chances were ruined forever.

He was gone in the next moment and Clarisse emerged from a room behind me. She looked elegant as ever, sporting a satin bow in her hair and the lightest dash of mauve across her lips. Her wise chocolate eyes looked as calm as the eye of a storm, not concerned in the least about what had just occurred. I stared dumbly at her as she joined me on the landing, relieved as hell that she was still drawing breath, but also cursing her with it for not coming to my rescue.

She knew what I was thinking without even looking at me. "Heard 'em barge through your uncle's study window and barricaded myself in his bathroom. The others scattered downstairs into the kitchen like rats. Didn't come right out when I heard you 'cause I knew you could handle yourself with just the one. Ruthless bastards, them—them ripped the house apart, top to bottom."

"They, them?" I questioned. She couldn't mean there had been _more_ of them barging about my uncle's home?

"Of course!" Clarisse harrumphed. "You didn't think he came alone, do you? Their kind never travel alone."

"Who?"

"Cowards. Cowards never travel alone."

I shook my head impatiently. "No—I mean, who else was here, Clarisse?"

She looked at me as though I hadn't been listening to a word she'd said. "Assassins, you daft girl! Assassins! Four of 'em, I gather, all heaped under their hoods and cloaks and whatnot, though three of 'em jumped out the windows just before you got here. Them asked me where your uncle was through the door." An odd look overtook her expression then. "I told them they could piss themselves and I'd still never open the door."

"So he still hasn't come back…" I trailed off as the front doors swung open to reveal the hunkered figure of my uncle. A train of guards followed him in, shaking from the drizzle, and ran about the foyer like chickens without heads, demanding that any invaders surrender now or prepare to fight. "Uncle!"

He raised his head, looking surprised and immensely relieved when he saw me. "Oh, darling niece. Where 'ave you _been_ zese last few 'ours?! I was worried sick believing ze assassins 'ad discovered you!"

I shrugged. "I thought it might be a good idea to return and guard the house. They're all gone, by the way. There were four of them, but they didn't find…_who_ they were looking for."

Uncle looked to understand immediately. He swallowed thickly and nodded. "Ze men will search ze house for any stowaways. No room unchecked. Zere is much zat 'as 'appened while you've been missing, my dear. Some of which I…loathe to tell you."

My heart sank. _Please, God, let Lorenzo still be alive,_ I prayed. I thought about praying for my own well-being, but I believed for certain that the Order was aware of my betrayal. I knew the consequences of my actions and had fulfilled them anyway. I deserved whatever punishment that befell me.

"Where's that Lorenzo at?" Clarisse wondered. The two of us had always thought alike, so it was no surprise to me that she sounded worried about his disappearance.

"Well, my dear…" My uncle bowed his head. My heart ached in my throat—here it comes, here it comes, I'm going to die—"Lorenzo…'e is missing."


	7. Chapter One: Revolutionized

**AN: Eyyy, Chapter One is published and ready to go! Sorry it took so long. I also have an excuse you've heard a billion times before along with that apology and it's one word: College. **

**This chapter is basically an exposition that covers most everything the prologue didn't. Also—no Arno in this chapter! Well, not in the flesh anyway. Oh, but don't worry—he'll be back soon. Very soon. Like next chapter soon. But, sadly, sex will not ensue. Yet. And also—yay, Axeman makes a marvelous return, that magnanimous son of a bitch with a great ass. Not a love interest though. That, my dear audience, is what Arno is for! I'll probably make some kind of Reader Insert for Axeman later, though, so there's always that. **

**And also! I realize that these chapters may vary in quality due to lack/abundance of inspiration, but do know that this is basically the rough draft. I'm actually just throwing this down as fast as I can for the time being. After it's finished and I'm on to the next story (cough—maybe Julien du Casse—cough), however, I will return to flesh out the plot in lieu of the **_**actual**_** story. Basically, the newer chapters will replace the older ones. Am I speaking language enough for you?**

**Okay, I'm done listening to my own voice that is speaking in my head as I write this. Onto Chapter One!**

**-Toothbrush**

**Update: Yeah, totally fucked up the time anomaly (but like I said, it's a work in progress). Guess what guys: the Eiffel Tower was built in 1793! Oh yeah, true story! Okay, no it's not, I fucked that up. Thank you, 'nony, for pointing that out! I didn't even think about it - I just kinda threw it there! **

X

_September, 1793..._

"Quickly, _mon cher _(my dear), else we be late to Germaine's _bal de Gala_ (Gala ball)!"

I snatch my shoes from Clarisse and rush out to meet uncle on the front patio. He chuckles at my discomfort—it's been some time since I'd been enslaved petticoats and lace—and reaches out to steady me.

"_C'est bon, mon cher _(It's all right, my dear)_,"_ he chuckles, "you've enough time to slip on your heels."

"Damn well should 'fore you your feet get dirty," Clarisse mumbles behind me.

I bark a laugh. "It's a couple years too late to be worrying about my feet, Clarisse."

"Oh, it's _never_ too late to worry about a hellcat like you." She shoots me a wry grin.

It's been two months since Lorenzo disappeared. Two months since I came face-to-face with the phantom assassin who still haunts me to this day. After our encounter, I became fascinated with the Brotherhood and spent my time secretly studying their Creed. I learned of Altair, Ezio, and the many grandmasters who followed. Their history intertwined me even deeper with the Brotherhood, and before I knew it, I was on the hunt for their bureau.

But my secret studies have come to a halt this week. As I am now one and twenty, my uncles' sister, Aunt Amelie, has expressed her concerns towards my lack of—ahem—"bush-beating", which is her polite way of saying, lack of men to bed. I've always been quite the diehard romantic, but between my Templar duties and playing courier for my uncle, I've had no time for love. Well, unless it so happens to be that assassin—

That damn assassin! Such a man truly was created to torment me. Eight months and I _still_ love him. A complete stranger, and yet I felt as though I know him so well. How does one explain these emotions, I've constantly wondered, when such emotions lack any explanation at all? I _need_ to put my feelings for him aside—though my betrayal still lies buried beneath a sediment of secrecy, I am still wary that it will one day be unearthed—but no matter how hard I've tried, I cannot forget him, nor can I convince my heart to lie to itself and deny my feelings for him.

Hopefully tonight will provide a distraction for me. Aunt Amelie had hinted that she's invented a list of suitors in mind for me. I'll probably be meeting them at the Gala tonight. The thought of finding a replacement for my current object of bizarre affection doesn't sit well with me, but I know it's for the best. Templars and Assassins cannot be. At least, not during this Era.

The Reign of Terror is what people are calling it. After Robespierre was placed in charge of maintaining the Revolution's chaos by the newly ascending Templar Grandmaster, François-Thomas Germain (whom I loathe for trusting Robespierre, the man who executed Salve), he began executing people left and right. There's a ghost, they say, who's been rescuing those unfortunate enough to cross Robespierre's path. The Scarlet Pimpernel. Why do I find this significant? Because Germain has officially ordered the execution of King Louis XVI, whose death was a precursor itself to this Era of hell, and the king's son is believed to be imprisoned within the walls of Germain's fortress. I myself am cynical of this rumor as the Temple Prison would seem the more likely to imprison all walks of criminals, but I'd rather be sure before I dismiss the rumor.

Uncle knows of my desire to rescue the young Dauphine. He wants the same things I do. But neither of us are safe to act; not unless we're given the opportunity to assist an outsider. Someone like the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Ah, _mon cher_," uncle sighs wistfully as I struggle to slip my heels on beneath the heap of petticoats. "Your _mère_ (mother) would always talk and talk of 'er _beau cygnet_ (beautiful swan). She'll be believing zat now more zan ever. You're just like 'er, you know. You've made 'er so proud. You've _always_ made 'er proud."

I smile up at him. "_Merci, _uncle. That really…that means a lot to me."

And it does. Not only because it's a compliment, but because I miss my mother terribly. Since my father had passed away before I was barely old enough to comprehend death, Uncle has become my last and only connection to my mother. She denounced her title in the name of love and married a lower class commander of the American Army, ostracizing herself from everything and everyone she'd ever known—and Uncle still loved her unconditionally. I know that he loved my father, too, because I'd once discovered old pictures of the two of them attending Oxford together. He loved both of them and he loves me. If he believes my mother would think me the most beautiful swan, then I believe him.

His eyes glisten and I wonder hesitantly if he's going to cry. "Ah, _mais c'est la vie _(but such is life)_._ Your _mère_ has been reunited with your _père_ (father) and zat is ze most beautiful zing. And we 'ere on Earth, we live and live some more, with ze guidance of zose fallen before us. She is watching over you, _mon cher_. And I know zat she is watching over Lorenzo, too."

We exchange a sad smile before he helps lift me into the carriage. Where has my cousin gone? There are only two options: one, he was killed. Or two…he has inconspicuously switched teams. Sadly, I believe wholeheartedly that the latter is the most probable. He'd quickly begun to resent the Order after the previous Grandmaster joined forces Robespierre. It was a spiral downfall from there.

The ride to Germain's manor is not a long one; we live not two hours away. But the distance between gives my uncle and I time to clear our minds and brace them before we're faced with Germain's insufferableness.

"I did not wish to tell you, but Robespierre inquired about you again, _mon cher_." His name sounds like a curse upon my uncle's lips.

I heave a sigh and bang my temple against the window. Of course he would. Since the fiasco at the courtyard, he's had his eye on me. The only purpose for this that I could deduce is that he knows of my betrayal. Why he hasn't acted on this information yet is beyond me, but I can only hope that my lying low will resolve his concerns about me.

"One of your suitors tonight will undoubtedly be one of 'is men," uncle continues. "Zerefore, I forbid you from dancing with 'im." I raise my brow. This is unexpected; a lady is to dance will all her suitors, according to proper society, the guidebook higher society lives by. "I refuse to give my blessing to a pretentious, _dégoûtant_ (disgusting) rat. Zey will be no 'usband of yours."

"I couldn't agree more!" I confess eagerly.

Uncle nods. "_Oui_—I want you to be on your guard tonight. As we've discussed, the young Dauphin could possibly be under lock and key somewhere in zat gruesome fortress. Ze Scarlet Pimpernel is bound to make an appearance tonight. I would not doubt for a moment zat the Assassins might, as well. It's going to be dangerous, so I want you to stay close to my side, _oui_?"

"What if…" I hesitate. "What if an…opportunity arises?" Uncle studies me intently. I think he already knows what I'm hinting at, but he'd rather me spell it out before interrupting. "What if there's a way to, ah…discreetly assist him in rescuing the Dauphin? Would I…might I be able to…"

"_Oui_," uncle says without hesitation, much to my surprise. I was expecting him to scold me for my lack of conscience, not agree right on the spot. He leans in closer to me and I reciprocate, knowing that we're about to strategize. "I wanted to be sure you truly wanted this before we crafted a strategy. You recall the former Grandmaster, de la Serra?" I nod. _"C'est bon_ (That's good), because 'e is very important. As you might recall, 'e was murdered some years ago. The assailant was believed to be a young man who 'ad once lived beneath 'is roof, who betrayed de la Serra soon after discovering the Assassin's Brotherhood. But zere were some…minor inconveniences zat 'ave led me to reconstruct zis theory."

"You don't think it was the Assassin," I muse aloud. "Then you think that it's Germain, don't you? Otherwise you wouldn't be so eager to betray a Grandmaster."

"Betrayal is ze most deplorable act of crime you can commit," he reiterates. It was his legacy, a legacy I lived by. "A traitor will forever be branded a traitor. Zere is no redemption Brutus and 'e will suffer eternally for 'is sin. Betrayal only breeds more 'atred and cynicism. If a soldier betrayed Julius Caesar, his sons and daughters lives would be forever altered, forever branded by 'is sin." He reaches out and takes my hands in his own, squeezing them tightly. "I do not want to put you in danger. It is somezing I would never forgive myself for. You 'ave been tormented by ze deaths of your parents, Salve, and possibly Lorenzo already, and I cannot bring myself to further indenture you to any more suffering. You deserve so much more than what ze Order offers you, _mon cher_. So much more. You deserve all ze 'appiness it could never provide for you. You deserve the world. And zat is why I will allow you to assist—by relating any and all information to me. I will take care of it from zere."

His voice is shaking by the end of his soliloquy. He wants to take any and all blame for me. He wants to absorb it all and protect me from whatever consequences follow. He is willing to sacrifice everything for me.

Looks like I have to worm my way out of yet another shaky alibi. I already have a few ideas in mind. I'll relate information to him, all right. Selectively chosen information. I can't have him burning at the stake in my place. _I_ will be the one to take care of Germain and the young Dauphin. Sorry, uncle. You've done so much for me already. Now is the time that I'll repay you.

"_Oui_, uncle," I lie through my teeth. "I understand. I'll remain close by. Try not to throw a fit over all the suitors I'll be forced to refuse."

He smiles in relief. "I can only imagine ze theatrics were Lorenzo 'ere."

I return the favor with a crooked smile. "I think I can play them up just as nicely without him."

Uncle leans back in his seat and turns his attention to the window. "We'll see about _zat_."

I hide my wide smile behind my hand. Yes, we certainly shall see about _that_.

X

The outside of Germain's mansion looks like a damn fortress, as expected. Since he claimed the land as his own, he's transformed it into the dreariest and most depressing sack of stones I've ever had the misfortune of visiting. It infuriates me that he's got the poor young prince locked away inside there somewhere, most likely lying on a cot of straw barely shielding his back from the cold floor. But I won't have to worry for much longer. I'll help free him if it's the last damn thing I do, else France will be subjected to a perpetual Reign of Terror.

"Remember what we discussed, _mon cher_," uncle whispers as he steers me up the patio steps. A sapphire winks out from his cravat as we step into the blinding light erupting out from the stain-glassed windows. He hasn't dressed this magnanimously in quite some time. "Avoid Robespierre like ze plague. If an offender should arrive on scene, I'll cut ze balls off ze _fils de pute_ (son of a whore)."

I chuckle at his explicative. He truly is invigorated tonight, isn't he? Probably a product of the adrenaline rush from the thought of declaring war on Germain. "I heard you the first three times you told me, uncle. Relax—I know what I'm doing."

He shoots me a wary glace from the corner of his eyes. "_Zat_ is what I'm afraid of."

Two guards meet us at the doors and gesture us inside. We grant them a good evening before entering the ballroom, greeted by the boom of the chamberlain's voice as he bellows our titles in introduction. A grand staircase littered with candles enveloped in lotus flowers tumbles before us and a stupendous kaleidoscope of undulating color sweeps across the dancefloor like ribbons of confetti. The dresses are dripping with opulence and their billowing skirts flutter out as gracefully as a butterfly's wings. Tailcoats of every color and material are boasted by chests small and wide, adorned with jewels and gold and whatever else they could think to sew on. I don't doubt that every noble residence in Paris is present and the thought clings nervously to me because I'm not used to sharing space with so many variations of angels and devils. I'm not self-decadent, but I am self-aware of my personal space and like it to remain just that—mine. It's uncomfortable being squished.

But tonight is different. I've got to keep my eyes open and search for Robespierre's men. Any corridor within a mile of the Dauphine is bound to be heavily guarded, but I might find a way to maneuver around all of that.

Amidst the whirling pandemonium, I glimpse a face that registers eerily. A white noise blankets my thoughts and all noise as my eyes lock with Lorenzo's. He stands by the balcony door far to the right of the stairs, dressed in an elongated red tailcoat that brushes his knees. It's oddly reminiscent of an Assassin's coat—or at least the ones that I've seen. Could it be…?

"Ah, _vous êtes enfin là_ (you're finally here)!" My Aunt Amelie's voice startles me from my daze. My uncle and I seemed to have perched on the last stair as Amelie approaches us, her arms thrown wide in lieu of an embrace. "_Mes chéris (_My darlings)! Oh, 'ow I 'ave _missed_ you!"

As we gather for a group hug, I can't help but gape in appreciation at her incredible gown; it is the epitome of an Elizabethan peacock, sporting rich hues of green and blue that drape from her bodice in willowy elegance. Her long sleeves glitter with sapphires and the trim of her cleavage-hem is lined with emeralds. Vivid crimson tendrils that have escaped the intricate chignon collapsed against the base of her neck brush casually against her brows. Aunt Amelie is the fashion icon of Paris and she's known from London to Rome for her creativity in the field. However, the most notable attribute about her besides her overwhelming creativity is her attitude. You would think that a woman in such high demand would succumb to the pettiness of superficiality that comes with the illusion of a pedigree vain, but Amelie de Lafayette is possibly the most sincere woman to ever walk the planet. She's a to-the-point sort of lady, one that isn't afraid to state her honest opinion whilst still remaining completely empathetic towards whomever she argues with, and one whose loyalty withstands the test of time.

"Amelie, my beautiful sister," uncle laughs, "my, it's certainly been a while!"

"Perhaps it wouldn't be so if you visited me more often," Amelie deadpans, but I know she's beyond herself in excitement to see us again. The taut curve of her lips tells me so. She seems like a hard person to read, but she's actually quite the open book if you know her well enough. "I may never forgive you for abandoning me to ze English Neanderthals masquerading among ze London tailors. Zose traitors damned ze English sense of fashion nearly beyond my capabilities! Luckily for me, I am a genius, and managed to save zem before zey began sewing pincushions to their collars rather zan cravats."

"Amelie." Uncle tries to sound scolding, but his lips twitch traitorously.

"Oh, don't fret, Gilbert, I asked politely before I ripped ze curtains from zeir sewing machines." Amelie abruptly begins pulling us in the direction of the wine bar. "Never mind ze English, I've got some friends for you to meet."

Friends of Amelie's are bound to be artists and philosophers alike. She prefers keeping company she can relate to on a creative level. I'm not bothered by her choice of company, however; I'm more concerned with what company she has chosen for _me_.

As we push through the crowd, I keep my eyes open for guards. Several of Robespierre's officers are dancing with ladies and still more are loitering by the food bar across from the alcoholic beverages. I don't catch another glimpse of Lorenzo, but I can feel a strange presence lingering on my shoulders. Lorenzo will have to wait. First, I need to find an officer to dance with. Seducing one is _not_ an option—I would rather flirt with a goat—but I might be able to persuade one to reveal the Dauphin's location. If they recognize me as a Templar, then they may be disillusioned into believing I'm innocent.

"Ah, sink me!" One of Amelie's friends, a rather eccentric-looking gentlemen adorning a powdered wig and spectacle, calls out from between two women. The one on his right, the epitome of French elegance with a creamy gown derived of lace and satin with intelligent darker-green eyes, has an arm comfortably wrapped around his and the one on the left is familiar-looking, sitting on the wine bar and absolutely piss-pot drunk. "And so Lady of the Hour has returned!"

"More like ze Lady of ze Scour," the drunkard cackles. A pale hand swipes back the bangs of her powdered wig. "Because she just went a-scouring for her two friends 'ere."

"Yes," the man replies with what sounds like a genuine laugh, "indeed she did!"

Amelie calls and gestures to me. "_Ma nièce et son frère_ (My niece and brother), Gilbert. _Ce est _(this is) Olympe de Gouges—" The drunk woman smiles and bows theatrically and I recognize the name as a recently acknowledged playwright who's infamous for her political pamphlets criticizing Robespierre. I take back my earlier judgments—I love this woman! "—and Sir Percy Blakeney and 'is wife, Marguerite, returned to Paris."

Uncle and I exchanged greetings.

"_Bonsoir_!" Marguerite exclaims excitedly. "Amelie has told us so much about you! I was inclined to believe she had simply imagined the two of you she spoke so highly of you. Anomalies of perfection, both of you! I can see she wasn't lying."

"I exaggerate, darling," Amelie chuckles, "not lie."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear!" Sir Blakeney sets aside his spectacle and takes my hand, guiding it to his smiling lips. "And what is the young lady's name?"

I tell him and his face lights up with a flourish. "Sink me! A beautiful name for a beautiful young woman!"

"Eheheh, thank you," I giggle, pleased that someone is appreciative of the struggle I went through trying to dress myself in these damn petticoats and lace layers.

"_Oui_, a vision" Olympe agrees with a whimsical smile. "Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear."

The quote sounds familiar, but I don't have time to contemplate it.

"It seems zat ze others 'ave escaped us," Amelie demurs, scrutinizing the bar for some familiar face. "Ah, well. You'll 'ave time to mingle later, my dear." Her eyes darken mischievously. I lean unscrupulously away as she rakes her gaze over me. "We've more important matters to attend to, _non_?"

Uncle sighs in exasperation. "Amelie, I implore you, do not corrupt ze poor girl."

I roll my eyes. Here it comes, the list of suitors Amelie's got lined out the door. Actually, I doubt they'd even stretch from the bar to the window five feet behind us. I'm not universally known; I'm just a normal young woman who just so happens to be involved in a dangerous conspiratorial society plotting to change the world. I doubt many men would like to come home to a dead body rather than supper.

"_Non, non!"_ Amelie exclaims incredulously. "Zis shall be fun! She'll learn more from zis zan she'll learn from ze woman prowling ze red light districts." Her friends chuckle below their breath. "Zere's more zan enough to fill the ballroom, if zat's what's got you worried." Actually, that just makes me even more _worried_. The only reason any of them would have agreed to dance with me tonight is because of the title Lafayette, for God's sake! I wonder if any of them know that I am, in actuality, a much weaker relation than Amelie has probably led them to believe; my mother married my father, a man of lower class, for true love, and she never regretted it for a moment. I wish to find my own true love someday…And do _not_ think of that _damn assassin_! "One of zem was 'ere a moment ago—"

"George?" Sir Blakeney nods off into the crowd. "He's just over there, wooing the women from that eclectic residence down the street from here. Oh, what was their name? Laudry?"

"Looney," his wife giggles. Sir Blakeney makes an 'ah' sound. "Just as so; their daughters are widely known for their ability to sing opera in dog barks. It's all the rage in Austria."

"Rubbish," Olympe snaps, "anybody could do ze same. My inept first 'usband, _Louis_, could 'ave done ze same! Zeir daughters are rat dogs and ze world perceives them as Mozart. Hah—what is zis world succumbing to?" She plucks a tomato off of the food cart and weighs it in her lace-gloved hand. "Perhaps we should petition for a public demonstration right now. Ze Austrians 'ave terrible taste, but ze French certainly don't."

I'm honestly not threatened by the pretentious sisters, Lucinda and Lidia Looney. I see them bouncing around from the corner of my eye, conspicuously brushing their arms against their suitors', twirling porcelain fingers around their flaxen curls. If anything, I'm glad that they're here. The more suitors they entice the better. It will be much easier to move around if I'm not constantly hampered by Amelie's suitors. I don't know how to dance, anyway, so I'll be killing two birds with one stone.

"Let's not worry about who has outdone who," Marguerite says, glancing at me. I can see the evident concern on her face and I know that she's trying to steer the conversation elsewhere for my sake. "I, for one, would like to make a toast to our new friend here!" She raises a glass of red wine from the table and hoists it up in a salute. "To love!"

"To love!" the others, even my uncle, parrot, and I suddenly feel much more at ease than I did when I got here. Even though we've only just met, I truly feel a special connection with these people, and I'd rather spend the evening learning more about them than dancing with strangers.

As the small group and my uncle melt into the crowd, Amelie scans the crowd. She exhales a long sigh. I raise an inquisitive brow in her direction. "Don't look now," she murmurs to me, "but 'ere comes one of your _less_ _industrious_ suitors, Andre du Fleur."

I glance in the direction she's staring and feel my heart quicken. A dark tan tailcoat materializes from a split in the crowd and a familiar smile approaches me. That stubble, that tailcoat—is that Axeman?!

His teasing smile climbs his cheeks as those startling green eyes of his land on Amelie. "_Andouille_, even a Gala is safe from game fowl now! Had I my pistol, I might have shot you on ze spot, Amelie."

That _voice_! It couldn't be!

Amelie's piercing blue eyes flatten and she bows almost carelessly to him. "Ah, Andre. As dull and uncreative in your insults as ever, I see. Perhaps you should be stuffed for Zanksgiving with zat ridiculous costume you're sporting."

A deep chuckle rumbles in Andre's throat as he clasps a hand over his chest in mock depredation. "Your cruel words wound my feelings, Amelie! All none of zem."

"God forbid, you 'ave _feelings_." Amelie makes a noise of disgust.

I glance between the two of them, unsure if they're teasing each other or if they're serious.

Andre then turns his attention to me as though he's always been aware of my presence. His smile is sincere as he retrieves my hand and kisses it. "_Bonsoir_ (Good evening), _mademoiselle_," he murmurs in that heavenly low bass of his. "Am I in Heaven? Because I feel as zough I am staring into ze eyes of a _belle_ _ange (_beautiful angel_)_."

Blush blooms beneath my cheeks. I've never considered myself beautiful. I believe that I am pretty, at least, but certainly more average than beautiful. The attention allows me to gain further insight into how others perceive me and, while it's relieving and thrilling to know that I must possess _some_ form of striking appearance, I find it slightly uncomfortable to be the center of attention.

"I told you, she is one in a million," Amelie boasts, cocking her head with a wry smile.

"Unparalleled," Andre agrees smoothly. His eyes follow the length of my gown and he shoots me a flirtatious smirk. "It is no wonder Amelie 'as spoken so 'ighly of you_, jolie dame_ (pretty lady).

I can't help but smile up at Andre, still flattered that he would think me beautiful. "_Merci, monsieur._ I _should_ look beautiful tonight, considering the effort it took to get dressed!"

Amelie clears her throat and I freeze. Dammit, a proper lady is never improper—I've been told this a thousand times since I ascending into the higher echelon of society and yet I _still_ manage to act indecently. Blast it, why did I think it necessary to add that comment!

But Andre quickly defuses the situation. He laughs and nods his head vigorously. "So you know my pain! I believe clothes should be worn for free expression, but zese damn balls 'ave us clad in suffocating numbers we never wear again! Look at my cravat, for God's sake—ze pendant 'as been bent into the form of some disfigured _poulet_ (chicken). My tailors 'ave betrayed me!" I chuckle at his mortified expression. Even Amelie chimes in and I realize she must not have meant to sound condescending at my earlier comment. Either that or Andre has the talent of putting any mind at ease.

The band, a boisterous group seated by the back wall of the ballroom, end their symphony with a crescendo and ready themselves for the next dance. Andre startles me when he grasps my hand in his much larger one. I raise my head, feeling courageous enough to meet his emerald gaze. An epiphany strikes enlightenment into me; I might have fallen for this handsome, chivalrous man. I might have fallen on the spot—had it not been for the blue-clad Assassin.

"_Voudriez-vous danser avec moi?_ (Would you like to dance with me?)"

I hesitate. "What if I don't really know how?" I confess sheepishly.

The corners of his lips curl wryly. "Certainly anyone can dance to ze effortless minuet." I glance past him at the already engaged couples, twirling around and moving their arms in complicated gestures. Effortless indeed. He notices my look of dread and chuckles. "Of course, you could always pretend to know what you're doing. Zat's what _I_ always do."

How could I refuse? I let him lead me away from Amelie and out onto the dance floor, casting away my concerns for the Dauphin if only for a moment. I've never danced with anyone before. Well, I've danced with my mother and father and even my uncle and Lorenzo several times, but I've never danced with a suitor. I don't know much about dancing, either, but luckily Andre knows. He sweeps me through the crowd effortlessly and I feel other couples cast glances our way. I beam up at him in admiration, feeling like a princess at a ball.

"So tell me," he says, eyes sparkling emeralds, "'ow it is zat a woman like you is left unattended?"

"Unattended?" I echo, puzzled.

He chuckles. "Unmarried, _jolie dame_, a bachelorette. It would be 'ighly unlikely zat you've not captured ze attention of some man's eye."

A bold one, isn't he? And I feel no remorse in laughing and enjoying his impropriety. I feel like it's been forever since I was able to hold a comfortably flirtatious conversation about whatever I felt like talking about and I feel like it's acceptable to play coy with him. "Pah—who says I haven't?"

Ooh, that sounds odd coming from me. And I like it. I like the way he smiles and treats me as an equal rather than an item for purchase. He's the sort of man my uncle would approve of and I'm in awe of his down-to-earth humor myself, but…there is no romantic connection. I feel as though I'm gossiping with my own brother.

Brother. Brotherhood. There's that word again. The one I'm so infatuated with.

"Your lack of marital status is evidence enough, _jolie dame_," Andre points out. He looks puzzled and yet so attentive I feel the sudden urge to hug him. I've only met him like this—as ourselves—once, and I already feel as though we've known each other for ages. "Forgive me if I am being impertinent, but I know you don't believe in entertaining company, eh? But that would only lead me to wonder: why 'ave you ostracized yourself from bachelors?"

Ostracized myself? Well, he's not wrong. Since I joined the Order, I've been labeled as inferior to other members due to my lack of true social status. In the Order's eyes, I am still a lowly soldier's daughter. Not that it bothers me that they would perceive me that way because it doesn't. As silly as it might sound, I believe in fate and destiny and love, and I now know that it was correct of me to believe so. Meeting that Assassin was proof enough of true love's existence.

Or obsession. Blast it, what is _wrong_ with me? Am I just infatuated with the thought of love at first sight, or was it destiny that I met him? Was it destiny that led me to betray the Order? Never has a woman been so wrapped up in knots as I am in this very moment.

"Why d'you think that?" I wonder. Has he been spying on me or something?

Andre nods off towards Amelie, who I notice is surrounded by the remaining aristocrats Robespierre has miraculously not executed yet. "You see that woman zere? I met zat woman on a trip to England some months ago at a community ball. She is enamored with a _jeune fille_ (young girl) she calls 'er la _fierté et la joie_ (pride and joy). She 'as been searching for a way to unite ze girl with ze love of 'er life. Ze girl allows 'erself no enjoyment of ze opposite sex and thus, as she feels, needs motivation to find 'im."

A fuzzy warmth envelopes me. Amelie has done so much for me since my parents passed away. She is the reason I am proud to be the woman I am today. She taught me to love life when I thought it was meaningless and she taught me to believe in myself even when the world turned its back on me for being born a woman. It's a dog-eats-dog world out there, she would say, and where most women would fail to integrate, you have succeeded in ascending. Why integrate when you are _empowered_, as a human and an equal, to be treated equally.

Even if she is a bit ridiculous—she's assembled these suitors just for the sake of uniting me with my true love, is that even legal?—I can't help but feel appreciative because of what motivates her to such extreme lengths: a deep-seated, loyal love.

"True love, huh?" I chuckle at her absurdity. "I don't know if I should be celebrating this evening or dreading it."

Andre's chest rumbles humorously. "What, afraid of true love, _jolie dame_?"

I scoff. "Me? Afraid? No—I'm _petrified_."

Andre frowns, sensing that I'm serious beneath my facetious front. "Why is zat? Surely it's somezing to be celebrated, _oui_?" I twist my lips disdainfully. How can I celebrate it when it's taboo? Forbidden? Understanding dawns upon Andre, morphing his expression into one of articulate surprise. "Unless…you are already in love?" My mouth flops open in a foppish attempt to defend myself. "You are! You are in love! _Bien sûr (_Of course)! Zat makes all ze more sense—you cannot _find_ love because you are already _in_ love!"

"Not so loud!" I exclaim. Cringing, I glance around defensively. Luckily, everyone's too taken with their partner to even notice me. "All right, fine, you caught me. But it's complicated, Andre—I can't be with him."

"But why? It is love! Pursue it—do not let it slip from your fingers! You must fight! It is too precious—"

He really is a romance enthusiast, isn't he? Perhaps that's why we get along so well.

"It is," I interrupt reticently, "but it's complicated. It's just, well, it's complicated!"

I don't know why I'm telling him any of this in the first place, but I want to tell him more. I've known him approximately ten minutes and already I trust him. This is dangerous—and yet it feels so natural. How can it be natural conversing with the enemy like this? I'm getting tired of constantly questioning my life choices.

Andre creeps closer, eyeing me eloquently. "Tell me, _jolie dame_. Perhaps I can 'elp. Is 'e of lower class? A foreigner? Someone your aunt and uncle do not approve of?"

An exasperated groan is caught in my chest. I hate that I can't stop thinking about that damn Assassin and yet I can't help but fantasize about him. I need all the help I can get. "I don't know, I don't know, and probably not. In fact, no, I know they wouldn't. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't even know his name! I don't even know his name and yet I feel like I've lived a lifetime knowing him. I met him once—no, twice—and I can't explain what I feel for him. It was like the sea itself crashed into me and I was overwhelmed with this intensity of emotions, which is the way I've been for the last few months. Well, that and inundated. I feel so greatly that it was love at first sight, but I can't help but wonder how that can be when I don't even know him!"

"Because you do," Andre replies confidently. There's an omniscience in his eyes that coerces me into believing that he's certain in what he's preaching. "You _do_ know 'im, but in a less traditional sense. You know 'is 'eart and 'is knows yours. Zis sort of emotional engagement is _destin_ (destiny), _jolie dame—_you were meant to meet zis man and your 'earts 'ave spoken to one another. I suppose you could call it love at first 'eart razer zan sight, _non_?"

My heart soars. The concept of hearts speaking to one another describes the situation so precisely! The moment I saw him, I _knew_ him. And didn't he say that he knew _me_?

"Then what do I do?" I exasperate anxiously. "I could go looking for him, but it wouldn't serve much purpose without a name. Where do I start?" Good Lord, this is like Romeo and Juliet all over again. Shakespeare must have written that tragedy about us—except he left out the part where Juliet bangs her head against a wall until she knocks herself out. Yes, true story, I actually did that the night I met him because I couldn't stop fantasizing about his warm, half-lidded glowing eyes gazing deep into my soul, fingers intertwined in my hair and his lips caressing my nose.

I'm pathetic, yes, I know.

"Serendipity_, jolie dame_," Andre declares. "Fate is a proclivity in _amour_ (love). Now zat you 'ave been predisposed to destiny itself, zis love will follow you wherever you go. It may take time to unite you both, but be assured zat it _will prevail_."

I feel myself relax into the last few measures of the minuet while half teetering on the edge of tears. The passion that the last few months had begun to extinguish ignites again, even fiercer than before. Lorenzo always said it was easier to expect the worst rather than the best, but I can't stop myself from believing in the elusive power of love. I am completely and utterly certain that this profound connection I have to the nameless Assassin will lead me to him sooner or later. My heart thunders at the thought of seeing him again. What will I do when that time comes?

The minuet closes on a soft chord and a round of applause. Andre and I bow to each other, sharing a meaningful smile, before he reaches out to take my hand.

"_Merci, jolie dame_," he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, "for dancing with me. Though I 'ave not known Amelie long, I know zat she always speaks ze truth; you truly _are_ one in a million."

I blush and smile bashfully. How can I segregate myself from my enemies when I connect with them on such an intimate level? How ironic it is to feel so at home in the presence of a traitor you've been bred to loathe. There is no good and evil separating us from them—it's dehumanization. I realize that now. And I'm glad I do, because now I understand what this segregation means to me. There can be no peace when sides are picked. There is no in-between. There is only what is perceived as good and evil, and that line has been blurred beyond recognition between the Order and the Brotherhood.

I suddenly understand what my purpose is and it's intimidating as much as it is liberating. I need air.

"_I_ should be the one thanking _you_," I admit wholeheartedly. The backs of my eyes prickle with emotion. "You've really helped me, Andre, in more ways than you know. And I know that I can never repay you for what you've given me."

He raises an inquisitive brow. "Is zis ze part where I say, "I do"?"

We laugh together as he begins leading me back to the food bar. "I think that comes _after_ I get down on one knee. And oh! Ah, can you lead me to the balcony? I'm in need for some fresh air."

Andre's lips form an 'o' and he nods eagerly. "_Oui, oui,_ of course! _Pardonnez-moi_ (Forgive me), I should 'ave asked you first. Are you all right? Do you need to lie down?"

I smile secretly. He's so _worried_! "I'm fine, Andre, I promise you. I'm just a little suffocated is all."

"Andre!"

We pause and turn to discover Olympe rushing over, cheeks beat red. She's breathless when she approaches and slumps against a bejeweled pillar towering beside us in exhaustion. "Robespierre is 'ere. Outside and just arrived, but you know ze rat moves fast."

Andre and I freeze, a mutual distress palpable between us. We both recover quickly, but remain uneasy. "_Merde_ (damn)," Andre explicates beneath his breath. He then turns back to me. "_Pardonnez-moi, jolie dame_, but I am afraid zis is where we part for the evening."

My heart leaps happily at the thought that he believes this will not be our last meeting, but I am equally disappointed. Rather than pout, I nod comprehensively and move to curtsey goodbye. I don't know why I did, knowing that Andre is not the formal type in the least, for he abruptly pulls me to him in a bear hug.

"ZIs is not goodbye, _jolie dame_," he promises as he releases me. "In fact, we'll meet again sooner zan you zink."

Oh, I know we will. With Robespierre here, I'm certain things are about to get interesting.

We share a last smile before he disappears off into the crowd abreast Olympe. Resolution fills me and I make my way to the balcony in a contemplative daze. I feel weightless as I step outside. The Paris skyline greets me with a mysterious glow from beyond the castle's courtyard. An enclosure of shrubs and well-trimmed firs line the cold stone walls, desolate and malicious in contrast to the ethereal gleam of the setting sun.

I let the night's serenity wash over me as I reorganize my thoughts. Now that I'm free to think, I remind myself of why I came here in the first place. The Dauphin is my top priority, that much hasn't changed. There can be no more distractions, not until I know for certain where the young prince is being kept. But what has changed is my motivation. From this moment on, I am no longer a Templar. I am not a pawn or a novice or anything having to do with the Order. I am not an Assassin, either. I possess no faction identity.

From now on, I will be justice. I will be peace. I will be me. I have been revolutionized.

And I have Andre and that gorgeous, nameless Assassin to thank for it.


End file.
